The  Vampire 

Photofrarure  by  John  Andrew  &  Son  after  original  by  Burne-Jonei 


Uallaba 
antr 


to  Huxr  EfcttUm 

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Clrtnfiutgf) 

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ONE  THOUSAND  IMPRESSIONS   HAVE  BEEN  TAKKN 
FOB  THIS   EDITION 


OOPT»ieHT,  1909 

BY  THE   EDINBITBOH    SOCIETY 


CONTENTS 

Ballads 


PAGE 

THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

Oh  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never 
the  twain  shall  meet   I 

THE  LAST  SUTTEE 

Udai  Chand  lay  sick  to  death   8 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  KING'S  MERCY 

Abdhur   Rahman,   the   Durani    Chief,   of   him 
is  the  story  told   14 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  KING'S  JEST 

When  springtime  flushes  the  desert  grass  ....     21 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BOH  DA  THONE 

This  is  the  ballad  of  Boh  Da  Thorne 27 

THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  BORDER  CATTLE 
THIEF 

O  woe  is  me  for  the  merry  life  42 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  THREE  CAPTAINS 

...  At  the  close  of  a  winter  day  45 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "CLAMPHERDOWN" 

It  was  our   war-ship   "Clampherdown"    52 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "BOLIVAR" 

Seven  men  from  all  the  world,  back  to  dock 

again    57 

BARRACK-ROOM 


2234871 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  ENGLISH  FLAG 

Winds  of  the  World,  give  answer?  They  are 
whimpering  to  and  fro —   61 

"CLEARED" 

Help  for  a  patriot  distressed,  a  spotless  spirit 
hurt     67 

AN  IMPERIAL  RESCRIPT 

Now  this  is  the  tale  of  the  Council  the  Ger- 
man Kaiser  decreed  73 

TOMLINSON 

Now  Tomlinson  gave  up  the  ghost  in  his  house 
in  Berkeley  Square   77 

Barrack-Room  Ballads 


DANNY  DEEVER 

"What  are  the  bugles  blowin'  for?"  said  Files- 
on- Parade    89 

TOMMY 

I  went  into  a  public-'ouse  to  get  a  pint  o'  beer    92 
"FUZZY-WUZZY" 

We've  fought  with  many  men  acrost  the  seas    96 
SOLDIER,  SOLDIER 

"Soldier,  soldier,  come  from  the  war"  99 

SCREW-GUNS 

Smokin'   my   pipe   on   the    mountings,   sniffin' 
the  mornin'  cool   102 

GUNGA  DIN 

You  may  talk  o'  gin  and  beer 106 

POEMS 


CONTENTS 


P4OB 

OONTS ! 

Wot  makes  the  soldier's    'eart    to  penk,    wot 
makes  him  to  perspire   no 

LOOT 

If  you've  ever  stole  a  pheasant  egg  be'ind  the 

keeper's    back    114 

"SNARLEYOW" 

This  'appened  in  a  battle  to  a  batt'ry    of    the 
corps    118 

THE  WIDOW  AT  WINDSOR 

'Ave  you  'card  o'  the  widow  at  Windsor 121 

BELTS 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street  that's  near 
to   Dublin   Quay    124 

THE  YOUNG  BRITISH  SOLDIER 

When  the  'arf-made  recruity  goes  out  to  the 
East    127 

MANDALAY 

By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward 
to  the  Sea  131 

TROOPIN' 

Troopin',  troopin',  troopin'  to  the  sea  135 

FORD  o'  KABUL  RIVER 

Kabul  town's  by  Kabul  river—  138 

ROUTE-MARCHIN' 

We're   marchin'   on   relief  over   Injia's   sunny 
plains    141 

Departmental  Ditties 

PRELUDE 

I  have  eaten  your  bread  and  salt  147 

Poems 


CONTENTS 

VAGI 

GENERAL  SUMMARY 

We  are  very  slightly  changed    149 

ARMY  HEADQUARTERS 

Ahasuerus  Jenkins  of  the  "Operatic  Own"   . .   151 

STUDY  OF  AN  ELEVATION,  IN  INDIAN  INK 

Potiphar  Gubbins,   C.  E 154 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  FOREIGN  OFFICE 

Rustum    Beg    of    Kolazai — slightly    backward 
native    state —    156 

THE  STORY  OF  URIAH 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta  159 

THE  POST  THAT  FITTED 

Ere   the   steamer   bore   him   Eastward,    Sleary 
was  engaged  to  marry   161 

PUBLIC  WASTE 

By  the  Laws  of  the  Family  Circle  'tis  written 
in  letters  of  brass    164 

DELILAH 

Delilah     Aberyswith     was     a    lady — not     too 
young    167 

WHAT  HAPPENED 

Hurree    Chunder    Mookerjee,    pride    of    Bow 
Bazar     171 

PINK  DOMINOES 

Jenny  and  Me  were  engaged,  you  see 175 

THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  WRITE 

Boanerges  Blitzen,  servant  of  the  Queen  ....  178 
POEMS 


CONTENTS 


rial 

MUNICIPAL 

It  was  an  August  evening,  and,  in  snowy  gar- 
ments   clad    181 

A  CODE  OF  MORALS 

Now  Jones  had  left  his  new-wed  bride  to  keep 
his  house  in  order   184 

THE  LAST  DEPARTMENT 

"None  whole  or  clean,"  we  cry,  "or  free  from 
stain"    188 

Other  Verses 
RECESSIONAL 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old —  193 

THE  VAMPIRE 

A  fool  there  was  and  he  made  his  prayer  ....   195 

To  THE  UNKNOWN  GODDESS 

Will  you  conquer  my  heart  with  your  beauty; 
my  soul  going  out  from  afar  ?   197 

THE  RUPAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KAL'VIN 

Now  the  New  Year,  reviving  last  Year's  Debt  199 
LA  NUIT  BLANCHE 

I  had  seen,  as  dawn  was  breaking  202 

MY  RIVAL 

I  go  to  concert,  party,  ball — 206 

THE  LOVERS'  LITANY 

Eyes  of  grey — a  sodden  quay  209 

A  BALLAD  OF  BURIAL 

If  down  here  I  chance  to  die  211 

POEMS 


CONTENTS 


MM 

DIVIDED  DESTINIES 

It  was  an  artless  Bandar,  and  he  danced  upon 
a  pine   213 

THE  MASQUE  OF  PLENTY 

"How  sweet  is  the  shepherd's  sweet  life !"  ...  216 

THE  MARE'S  NEST 

Jane  Austen  Beecher  Stowe  de  Rouse 223 

POSSIBILITIES 

Ay,  lay  him  'neath  the  Simla  pine —  216 

CHRISTMAS  IN  INDIA 

Dim   dawn  behind  the   tarmarisks — the  sky  is 
saffron-yellow —    228 

PAGETT,  M.  P. 

Pagett,  M.   P.,  was  a  liar,    and    a  fluent  liar 
therewith, —    231 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOMEN 

How  shall  she  know  the  worship  we  would  do 
her  ?    234 

A  BALLADE  OF  JAKKO  HILL 

One  moment  bid  the  horses  wait  237 

THE  PLEA  OF  THE  SIMLA  DANCERS 

"What  have  we  ever  done  to  bear  this  grudge"  239 

BALLAD  OF  FISHER'S  BOARDING-HOUSE 

'Twas  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house   242 

"As  THE  BELL  CLINKS" 

As  I  left  the  Halls  at  Lumley,  rose  the  vision 
of  a  comely    247 

AN  OLD  SONG 

So  long  as  'neath  the  Kalka  hills  251 

POEMS 


CONTENTS 


CERTAIN  MAXIMS  OF  HAFIZ 

If  It  be  pleasant  to  look    on,  stalled    in  the 
packed  serai    254 

THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  HUNDRED  HEAD 

There's  a  widow  in  sleepy  Chester   260 

THE  MOON  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

Beneath   the   deep   veranda's   shade    264 

THE  OVERLAND  MAIL 

In  the  name  of  the   Empress  of  India,  make 
way    266 

WHAT  THE  PEOPLE  SAID 

By  the  well,  where  the  bullocks  go 269 

THE  UNDERTAKER'S  HORSE 

The  eldest  son  bestrides  him  271 

THE  FALL  OF  JOCK  GILLESPIE 

This  fell  when  dinner-time  was  done —  274 

ARITHMETIC  ON  THE  FRONTIER 

A  great  and  glorious  thing  it  is  277 

ONE  VICEROY  RESIGNS 

So  here's  your  Empire.     No  more  wine,  then? 
Good    279 

THE  BETROTHED 

Open  the  old  cigar-box,  get  me  a  Cuba  stout  288 

A  TALE  OF  Two  CITIES 

Where  the  sober-colored  cultivator  smiles   . . .  293 

GRIFFEN'S  DEBT 

Imprimis  he  was  "broke."    Thereafter  left  . .  297 

POEMS 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

IN  SPRINGTIME 

My  garden  blazes  brightly  with  the  rosebush 
and  the  peach    301 

Two  MONTHS 

No  hope,  no  change!     The  clouds  have  shut 
us    in    303 

THE  GALLEY-SLAVE 

Oh,  gallant  was  our  galley  from  her    carven 
steering-wheel    305 

L'ENVOI 

The  smoke  upon  your  Altar  dies   309 

THE  CONUNDRUM  OF  THE  WORKSHOPS 

When  the  flush  of  a  newborn  sun  fell  first  on 
Eden's  green  and  gold   310 

THE  EXPLANATION 

Love  and  Death  once  ceased  their  strife 313 

THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SEA 

The  dead  child  lay  in  the  shroud 314 

EVARRA  AND  HlS  GODS 

Read   here    318 


POEMS 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
THE  VAMPIRE  (See  page  195)  .  .Frontispiece 

Photogravure    by    John    Andrew    &   Son   after 
original  by  Burne-Jones 

THEY  WERE  STRIPPED  TO  THE  WAIST.  .     55 

Mezzogravure    by    John    Andreiv  &  Son  after 
original  by  Reginald  Bolles 

FOR  GAWD'S    SAKE    GIT    THE    WATER, 

GUNGA  DIN  !  109 

Mezzogravure    by    John    Andrew  &  Son  after 
original  by  Reginald  Bolles 

COME  You  BACK,  You  BRITISH  SOLDIER  131 

Mezzogravure    by    John    Andreiv  &  Son  after 
original  by  Reginald  Bolles 

LOVE  LIKE  OURS  CAN  NEVER  DIE 209 

Mezzogravure    by    John    Andrew  &•  Son  after 
original  by  Reginald  Bolles 

AND  A  WOMAN  is  ONLY  A  WOMAN,  BUT 

A  GOOD  CIGAR  is  A  SMOKE 292 

Mezzogravure    by    John    Andrew  &  Son  after 
original  by  Reginald  Bolles 


BARRACK-ROOM 


BARRACK-ROOM  BALLADS  AND 
OTHER  VERSES 


THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

Oh  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never 

the  twain  shall  meet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's 

great  Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West  Border, 

nor  Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho' 

they  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth! 

KAMAL  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the 
Border  side, 

And  he  has  lifted  the  Colonel's  mare  that  is  the 
Colonel's  pride: 

He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable-door  be- 
tween the  dawn  and  the  day, 

And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and  rid- 
den her  far  away. 

Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a 
troop  of  the  Guides : 

"Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say 
where  Kamal  hides?" 

Then  up  and  spoke  Mahommed  Khan,  the  son 
of  the  Ressaldar, 

I 


2  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning-mist,  ye 

know  where  his  pickets  are. 
"At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai — at  dawn  he 

is  into  Bonair, 
"But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh  to  his  own 

place  to  fare, 
"So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  a 

bird  can  fly, 
"By  the  favor  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off,  ere 

he  win  to  the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
"But  if  he  be  passed  the    Tongue  of    Jagai, 

right  swiftly  turn  ye  then, 
"For  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  that  grisly 

plain  is  sown  with  Kamal's  men. 
"There  is  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the 

right,  and  low,  lean  thorn  between, 
"And  ye  may  hear  a  breech- -bolt  snick  where 

never  a  man  is  seen." 
The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a  raw 

rough  dun  was  he, 
With  the  mouth  of  a  bell  and  the  heart  of  Hell, 

and  the  head  of  the  gallows-tree. 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,  they 

bid  him  stay  to  eat — 
Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits 

not  long  at  his  meat. 
He's  up  and  away  from  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast 

as  he  can  fly, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  3 

Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  in  the 

gut  of  the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  with 

Kamal  upon  her  back, 
And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he 

made  the  pistol  crack. 
He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the 

whistling  ball  went  wide. 
"Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier,"  Kamal  said.    "Show 

now  if  ye  can  ride." 
It's  up  and  over  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  as  blown 

dust-devils  go, 
The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the  mare 

like  a  barren  doe. 
The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit  and  slugged 

his  head  above, 
But  the  red  mare  played  with  the  snaffle-bars, 

as  a  maiden  plays  with  a  glove. 
There  was  rock  to  the  left  and  rock   to   the 

right,  and  low  lean  thorn  between, 
And  thrice  he  heard  a  breech-bolt  snick   tho' 

never  a  man  was  seen. 
They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky, 

their  hoofs  drum  up  the  dawn, 
The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the 

mare  like  a  new-roused  fawn. 
The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course — in  a  woful 

heap  fell  he, 


4  POEMS,  BALLADS 

And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red  mare  back,  and 

pulled  the  rider  free. 
He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand — 

small  room  was  there  to  strive, 
"  'Twas  only  by  favor  of  mine,"  quoth  he,  "ye 

rode  so  long  alive : 
"There  was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there 

was  not  a  clump  of  tree, 
"But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  men  with  his 

rifle  cocked  on  his  knee. 
"If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand,  as  I  have  held 

it  low, 

"The  little  jackals  that  flee  so  fast,  were  feast- 
ing all  in  a  row : 
"If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as  I 

have  held  it  high, 
"The  kite  that  whistles  above  us  now  were 

gorged  till  she  could  not  fly." 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son :  "Do  good 

to  bird  and  beast, 

"But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats  be- 
fore thou  makest  a  feast. 
"If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to 

carry  my  bones  away, 
"Belike  the  price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more 

than  a  thief  could  pay. 
"They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing 

crop,  their  men  on  the  garnered  grain, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  5 

"The  thatch  of  the  byres  will  serve  their  fires 

when  all  the  cattle  are  slain. 
"But  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  fair, — thy 

brethren  wait  to  sup, 
"The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn, — howl, 

dog,  and  call  them  up! 
"And  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in 

steer  and  gear  and  stack, 
"Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I'll  fight 

my  own  way  back !" 
Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and  set 

him  upon  his  feet. 
"No  talk  shall  be  of    dogs,"  said  he,  "when 

wolf  and  grey  wolf  meet. 
"May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in  deed 

or  breath; 
"What  dam  of  lances  brought  thee  forth  to 

jest  at  the  dawn  with  Death  ?" 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son:    "I  hold 

by  the  blood  of  my  clan : 
"Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift — by 

God,  she  has  carried  a  man !" 
The  red  mare  ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and 

nuzzled  against  his  breast, 
"We  be  two  strong  men,"  said    Kamal  then, 

"but  she  loveth  the  younger  best. 
"So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  tur- 
quoise-studded rein, 
"My  broidered    saddle  and    saddle-cloth,  and 

silver  stirrups  twain." 


6  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew  and  held  it 

muzzle-end, 
"Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said  he; 

"will  ye  take  the  mate  from  a  friend  ?" 
"A  gift  for  a  gift,"  said  Kamal  straight;  "a 

limb  for  the  risk  of  a  limb. 
"Thy  father  has  sent  his  son  to  me,  I'll  send 

my  son  to  him!" 
With    that    he    whistled    his  only    son,    that 

dropped  from  a  mountain-crest — > 
He  trod  the  ling  like  a  buck  in  spring,  arid  he 

looked  like  a  lance  in  rest. 
"Now  here  is  thy  master,"  Kamal  said,  "who 

leads  a  troop  of  the  Guides, 
"And  thou  must  ride  at  his  left  side  as  shield 

on  shoulder  rides. 
"Till  Death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie,  at  camp  and 

board  and  bed, 
"Thy  life  is  his — thy  fate  is  to  guard  him  with 

thy  head. 
"So  thou  must   eat  the  White   Queen's  meat, 

and  all  her  foes  are  thine, 
"And  thou  must  harry  thy  father's  hold  for 

the  peace  of  the  Border-line, 
"And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough  and 

hack  thy  way  to  power — 
"Belike  they  will  raise  thee  to  Ressaldar  when 

I  am  hanged  in  Peshawur." 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  7 

They  have  looked  each  other  between  the  eyes, 

and  there  they  have  found  no  fault, 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in- 

Blood  on  leavened  bread  and  salt ; 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in- 

Blood  on  fire  and  fresh-cut  sod, 
On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife, 

and  the  Wondrous  Names  of  God. 
The   Colonel's   son   he   rides   the    mare   and 

Kamal's  boy  the  dun, 
And   two  have  come  back   to   Fort   Bukloh 

where  there  went  forth  but  one. 
And  when  they  drew  to  the  Quarter-Guard, 

full  twenty  swords  flew  clear — 
There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud  with 

the  blood  of  the  mountaineer. 
"Ha'  done!  ha'  done!"  said  the  Colonel's  son, 

"Put  up  the  steel  at  your  sides ! 
"Last  night  ye  had  struck  at  a  Border  thief — 

to-night  'tis  a  man  of  the  Guides !" 

Oh  East  is  East  and  West  is  West,  and  never 

the  two  shall  meet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's 

great  Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border, 

nor  Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho' 

they  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 


THE  LAST  SUTTEE 

Not  many  years  ago  a  King  died  in  one  of 
the  Rajpoot  States.  His  wives,  disregarding 
the  orders  of  the  English  against  suttee,  would 
have  broken  out  of  the  palace  had  not  the  gates 
been  barred.  But  one  of  them,  disguised  as 
the  King's  favorite  dancing-girl,  passed 
through  the  line  of  guards  and  reached  the 
pyre.  There,  her  courage  failing,  she  prayed 
her  cousin,  a  baron  of  the  court,  to  kill  her. 
This  he  did,  not  knowing  who  she  was. 

UDAI  CHAND  lay  sick  to  death 

In  his  hold  by  Gungra  hill. 
All  night  we  heard  the  death-gongs  ring 
For  the  soul  of  the  dying  Rajpoot  King, 
All  night  beat  up  from  the  women's  wing 

A  cry  that  we  could  not  still. 

All  night  the  barons  came  and  went, 
The  lords  of  the  outer  guard : 

All  night  the  cressets  glimmered  pale 

On  Ulwar  sabre  and  Tonk  jezail, 

Mewar  headstall  and  Marwar  mail, 
That  clinked  in  the  palace  yard. 
8 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  9 

In  the  Golden  room  on  the  palace  roof 

All  night  he  fought  for  air: 
And  there  was  sobbing  behind  the  screen, 
Rustle  and  whisper  of  women  unseen, 
And  the  hungry  eyes  of  the  Boondi  Queen 

On  the  death  she  might  not  share. 

He  passed  at  dawn — the  death-fire  leaped 

From  ridge  to  river-head, 
From  the  Malwa  plains  to  the  Abu  scaurs : 
And  wail  upon  wail  went  up  to  the  stars 
Behind  the  grim  zenana-bars, 

When  they  knew  that  the  King  was  dead. 

The  dumb  priest  knelt  to  tie  his  mouth 

And  robe  him  for  the  pyre. 
The  Boondi  Queen  beneath  us  cried: 
"See,  now,  that  we  die  as  our  mothers  died 
"In  the  bridal-bed  by  our  master's  side! 

"Out,  women! — to  the  fire!" 

We  drove  the  great  gates  home  apace: 

White  hands  were  on  the  sill: 
But  ere  the  rush  of  the  unseen  feet 
Had  reached  the  turn  to  the  open  street, 
The  bars  shot  down,  the  guard-drum  beat — 
We  held  the  dove-cot  still. 


10  POEMS,  BALLADS 

A  face  looked  down  in  the  gathering  day, 
And  laughing  spoke  from  the  wall : 

"Ohe,  they  mourn  here :  let  me  by — 

"Azizun,  the  Lucknow  nautch-girl,  I? 

"When  the  house  is  rotten,  the  rats  must  fly, 
"And  I  seek  another  thrall. 

"For  I  ruled  the  King  as  ne'er  did  Queen, — > 

"To-night  the  Queens  rule  me! 
"Guard  them  safely,  but  let  me  go, 
"Or  ever  they  pay  the  debt  they  owe 
"In  scourge  and  torture !"    She  leaped  below, 
And  the  grim  guard  watched  her  flee. 

They  knew  that  the  King  had  spent  his  soul 

On  a  North-bred  dancing-girl: 
That  he  prayed  to  a  flat-nosed  Lucknow  god, 
And  kissed  the  ground  where  her  feet  had  trod 
And  doomed  to  death  at  her  drunken  nod 
And  swore  by  her  lightest  curl. 

We  bore  the  King  to  his  fathers'  place, 

Where  the  tombs  of  the  Sun-born  stand: 
Where  the  grey  apes  swing,  and  the  peacocks 

preen 

On  fretted  pillar  and  jeweled  screen, 
And  the  wild  boar  couch  in  the  house  of  the 

Queen 
On  the  drift  of  the  desert  sand. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  II 

The  herald  read  his  titles  forth, 

We  set  the  logs  aglow : 
"Friend  of  the  English,  free  from  fear, 
"Baron  of  Luni  to  Jeysulmeer, 
"Lord  of  the  Desert  of  Bikaneer, 

"King  of  the  Jungle,— go!" 

All  night  the  red  flame  stabbed  the  sky, 
With  wavering  wind-tossed  spears: 
And  out  of  a  shattered  temple  crept 
A  woman  who  veiled  her  head  and  wept, 
And  called  on  the  King — but  the  great  King 

slept, 
And  turned  not  for  her  tears. 

Small  thought  had  he  to  mark  the  strife- 
Cold  fear  with  hot  desire — 
When  thrice  she  leaped  from  the  leaping  flame, 
And  thrice  she  beat  her  breast  for  shame, 
And  thrice  like  a  wounded  dove  she  came 
And  moaned  about  the  fire. 

One  watched,  a  bow-shot  from  the  blaze, 

The  silent  streets  between, 
Who  had  stood  by  the  King  in  sport  and  fray, 
To  blade  in  ambush  or  boar  at  bay, 
And  he  was  a  baron  old  and  grey, 

And  kin  to  the  Boondi  Queen, 


12  POEMS,  BALLADS 

He  said :  "O  shameless,  put  aside 

"The  veil  upon  thy  brow! 
"Who  held  the  King  and  all  his  land 
"To  the  wanton  will  of  a  harlot's  hand! 
"Will  the  white  ash  rise  from  the  blistered 
brand  ? 

"Stoop  down,  and  call  him  now!" 

Then  she :  "By  the  faith  of  my  tarnished  soul, 

"All  things  I  did  not  well 
"I  had  hoped  to  clear  ere  the  fire  died, 
"And  lay  me  down  by  my  master's  side 
"To  rule  in  Heaven  his  only  bride, 

"While  the  others  howl  in  Hell. 

"But  I  have  felt  the  fire's  breath, 

"And  hard  it  is  to  die ! 
"Yet  if  I  may  pray  a  Rajpoot  lord 
"To  sully  the  steel  of  a  Thakur's  sword 
"With  base-born  blood  of  a  trade  abhorred"— 

And  the  Thakur  answered,  "Ay." 

He  drew  and  struck:  the  straight  blade  drank 

The  life  beneath  the  breast. 
"I  had  looked  for  the  Queen  to  face  the  flame, 
"But  the  harlot  dies  for  the  Rajpoot  dame — 
"Sister  of  mine,  pass,  free  from  shame. 

"Pass  with  thy  King  to  rest!" 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  13 

The  black  log  crashed  above  the  white : 

The  little  flames  and  lean, 
Red  as  slaughter  and  blue  as  steel, 
That  whistled  and  fluttered  from  head  to  heel, 
Leaped  up  anew,  for  they  found  their  meal 

On  the  heart  of — the  Boondi  Queen! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  KING'S  MERCY 

Abdhur  Rahman  the  Durani  Chief,  of  him 

is  the  story  told. 
His  mercy  fills  the  Khyber  hills — his  grace 

is  manifold; 
He  has  taken  toll  of  the  North  and  the 

South — his  glory  reacheth  far, 
And  they  tell  the  tale  of  his  charity  from 

Balkh  to  Kandahar. 

BEFORE  the  old  Peshawur  Gate,  where  Kurd 

and  Kaffir  meet, 
The  Governor  of  Kabul  dealt  the  Justice  of  the 

Street, 
And  that  was  strait  as  running  noose  and  swift 

as  plunging  knife, 
Tho'  he  who  held  the  longer  purse  might  hold 

the  longer  life. 

There  was  a  hound  of  Hindustan  had  struck  a 

Euzufzai, 
Wherefore  they  spat  upon  his  face  and  led 

him  out  to  die. 

'4 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  15 

It  chanced  the  King  went  forth  that  hour  when 

throat  was  bared  to  knife; 
The  Kaffir  groveled  under-hoof  and  clamored 

for  his  life. 
Then  said  the  King:   "Have  hope,  O  friend! 

Yea,  Death  disgraced  is  hard; 
"Much  honor  shall  be  thine";  and  called  the 

Captain  of  the  Guard, 

Yar  Khan,  a  bastard  of  the  Blood,  so  city-bab- 
ble saith, 
And  he  was  honored  of  the  King — the  which 

is  salt  to  Death; 
And  he  was  son  of  Daoud  Shah  the  Reiver  of 

the  Plains, 
And  blood  of  old  Durani  Lords  ran  fire  in  his 

veins ; 
And  'twas  to  tame  an  Afghan  pride  nor  Hell 

nor  Heaven  could  bind, 

The  King  would  make  him  butcher  to  a  yelp- 
ing cur  of  Hind. 
"Strike!"  said  the  King.     "King's  blood  art 

thou — his  death  shall  be  his  pride!" 
Then  louder,  that  the  crowd    might    catch: 

"Fear  not — his  arms  are  tied !" 
Yar  Khan  drew  clear  the  Khyber  knife,  and 

struck,  and  sheathed  again. 
"O  man,  thy  will  is  done,"  quoth  he;  "A  King 

this  dog  hath  slain." 


1 6  POEMS,   BALLADS 

Abdhur  Rahman,  the  Durani  Chief,  to  the 

North  and  the  South  is  sold. 
The  North  and  the  South  shall  open  their 

mouth  to  a  Ghilzai  flag  unrolled, 
When  the  big  guns  speak  to  the  Khyber 

peak,  and  his  dog-Heratis  fly, 
Ye  have  heard  the  song  —  How  long?  How 

long?   Wolves  of  the  Abasai! 

That  night  before  the  watch  was  set,  when  all 

the  streets  were  clear, 
The  Governor  of  Kabul  spoke :  "  My  King, 

hast  thou  no  fear? 
"Thou    knowest  —  thou    hast    heard,"  —  his 

speech  died  at  his  master's  face. 
And  grimly  said  the  Afghan  King:  "I  rule 

the  Afghan  race. 
"My  path  is  mine — see  thou  to  thine — to-night 

upon  thy  bed 
"Think  who  there  be  in  Kabul  now  that  clamor 

for  thy  head." 

That  night  when  all  the  gates  were  shut  to 

City  and  to  Throne, 
Within   a   little   garden-house   the   King  lay 

down  alone. 
Before  the  sinking  of  the  moon,  which  is  the 

Night  of  Night, 


AND:    OTHER    VERSES  17 

Yar  Khan  came  softly  to  the  King  to  make  his 

honor  white. 
The  children  of  the  town  had  mocked  beneath 

his  horse's  hoofs, 
The   harlots    of   the    town   had    hailed    him 

"butcher!"  from  their  roofs. 
But  as  he  groped  against  the  wall,  two  hands 

upon  him  fell, 
The  King  behind  his  shoulder  spoke:  "Dead 

man,  thou  dost  not  well ! 
"  'Tis  ill  to  jest  with  Kings  by  day  and  seek  a 

boon  by  night ; 
"And  that  thou  bearest  in  thy  hand  is  all  too 

sharp  to  write. 
"But  three  days  hence,  if  God  be  good,  and  if 

thy  strength  remain, 
"Thou  shalt  demand  one  boon  of  me  and  bless 

me  in  thy  pain. 
"  For  I  am  merciful  to  all,  and  most  of  all  to 

thee, 
"My  butcher  of  the  shambles,  rest — no  knife 

hast  thou  for  me !" 

Abdhur  Rahman,  the  Durani  Chief,  holds 
hard  by  the  South  and  the  North; 

But  the  Ghilzai  knows,  ere  the  melting 
snows,  when  the  swollen  banks  break 
forth, 


i8  POEMS,  BALLADS 

When  the  red-coats  crawl  to  the  sungar 
wall,  and  his  Usbeg  lances  fail. 

Ye  have  heard  the  song — How  long?  How 
long?  Wolves  of  the  Zuka  Kheyl! 

They  stoned  him  in  rubbish-field  when  dawn 

was  in  the  sky, 
According  to  the  written  word,  "See  that  he 

do  not  die." 

They  stoned  him  till  the  stones  were  piled 

above  him  on  the  plain, 
And  those  the  laboring  limbs  displaced  they 

tumbled  back  again. 

One  watched  beside  the  dreary  mound  that 

veiled  the  battered  thing, 
And  him  the  King  with  laughter  called  the 

Herald  of  the  King. 

It  was  upon  the  second  night,  the  night  of 
Ramazan, 

The  watcher  leaning  earthward  heard  the  mes- 
sage of  Yar  Khan. 

From  shattered  breast  through  shriveled  lips 
broke  forth  the  rattling  breath; 

"Creature  of  God,  deliver  me  from  agony  of 
Death." 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  19 

They  sought  the  King  among  his  girls,  and 

risked  their  lives  thereby : 
"Protector  of  the  Pitiful,  give  orders  that  he 

die!" 

"Bid  him  endure  until  the  day,"  a  lagging  an- 
swer came; 

"The  night  is  short,  and  he  can  pray  and  learn 
to  bless  my  name." 

Before  the  dawn  three  times  he  spoke,  and  on 

the  day  once  more : 
"Creature  of  God,  deliver  me  and  bless  the 

King  therefore!" 


They  shot  him  at  the  morning  prayer,  to  ease 

him  of  his  pain, 
And  when  he  heard  the  matchlocks  clink,  he 

blessed  the  King  again. 

Which  thing  the  singers  made  a  song  for  all 

the  world  to  sing, 
So  that  the  Outer  Seas  may  know  the  mercy 

of  the  King. 

Abdhur  Rahman,  the  Durani  Chief,  of  him 
is  the  story  told. 


20  POEMS,  BALLADS 

He  has  opened  his  mouth  to  the  North  and 

the  South,  they  have  stuffed  his  mouth 

•with  gold. 
Ye  know  the  truth  of  his  tender  ruth — and 

sweet  his  favors  are. 
Ye  have  heard  the  song — How  long?  How 

long?  from  Balkh  to  Kandahar. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  KING'S  JEST 

WHEN  springtime  flushes  the  desert  grass, 
Our  kafilas  wind  through  the  Khyber  Pass. 
Lean  are  the  camels  but  fat  the  frails, 
Light  are  the  purses  but  heavy  the  bales, 
As  the  snowbound  trade  of  the  North  comes 

down 
To  the  market-square  of  Peshawur  town. 

In  a  tourquoise  twilight,  crisp  and  chill, 
A  kafila  camped  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
Then  blue  smoke-haze  of  the  cooking  rose, 
And  tentpeg  answered  to  hammer-nose; 
And  the  picketed  ponies  shag  and  wild, 
Strained  at  their  ropes  as  the  feed  was  piled; 
And  the  bubbling  camels  beside  the  load 
Sprawled  for  a  furlong  adown  the  road ; 
And  the  Persian  pussy-cats,  brought  for  sale, 
Spat  at  the  dogs  from  the  camel-bale ; 
And    the   tribesmen   bellowed   to   hasten   the 

food; 

And  the  camp-fires  twingled  by  Fort  Jumrood ; 
21 


22  POEMS,  BALLADS 

And  there  fled  on  the  wings  of  the  gathering 

dusk 

A  savor  of  camels  and  carpets  and  musk, 
A  murmur  of  voices,  a  reek  of  smoke, 
To  tell  us  the  trade  of  the  Khyber  woke. 
The  lid  of  the  flesh-pot  chattered  high, 
The  knives  were  whetted,  and — then  came  I 
To  Mahbub  AH,  the  muleteer, 
Patching  his  bridles  and  counting  his  gear, 
Crammed  with  the  gossip  of  half  a  year. 
But  Mahbub  Ali  the  kindly  said, 
"Better  is  speech  when  the  belly  is  fed." 
So  we  plunged  the  hand  to  the  mid-wrist  deep 
In  a  cinnamon  stew  of  the  fat-tailed  sheep, 
And  he  who  never  hath  tasted  the  food, 
By  Allah !  he  knoweth  not  bad  from  good. 

We  cleansed  our  beards  of  the  mutton-grease, 
We  lay  on  the  mats  and  were  filled  with  peace, 
And  the  talk  slid  north,  and  the  talk  slid  south, 
With  the  sliding  puffs  from  the  hookah-mo; ith. 
Four  things  greater  than  all  things  are, — 
Women  and  Horses  and  Power  and  War. 
We  spake  of  them  all,  but  the  last  the  most, 
For  I  sought  a  word  of  a  Russian  post, 
Of  a  shifty  promise,  an  unsheathed  sword 
And  a  grey-coat  guard  on  the  Helmund  ford. 
Then  Mahbub  Ali  lowered  his  eyes 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  23 

In  the  fashion  of  one  who  is  weaving  lies. 
Quoth  he:  "Of  the  Russians  who  can  say? 
"When  the  night  is  gathering  all  is  grey. 
"But  we  look  that  the  gloom  of  the  night  shall 

die 

"In  the  morning  flush  of  a  blood-red  sky. 
"Friend  of  my  heart,  is  it  meet  or  wise 
"To  warn  a  King  of  his  enemies? 
"We  know  what  Heaven  or  Hell  may  bring, 
"But  no  man  knoweth  the  mind  of  the  King. 
"That  unsought  counsel  is  cursed  of  God 
"Attesteth  the  story  of  Wali  Dad. 

"His  sire  was  leaky  of  tongue  and  pen, 
"His  dam  was  a  clucking  Khuttuck  hen; 
"And  the  colt  bred  close  to  the  vice  of  each, 
"For  he  carried  the  curse  of  an  unstaunched 

speech. 

"Therewith  madness — so  that  he  sought 
"The  favor  of  kings  at  the  Kabul  court ; 
"And  traveled,  in  hope  of  honor,  far 
"To  the  line  where  the  grey-coat  squadrons 

are. 

"There  have  I  journeyed  too — but  I 
"Saw  naught,  said  naught,  and — did  not  die! 
"He  hearked  to  rumor,  and   snatched  at   a 

breath 
"Of  'this  one  knoweth'  and  'that  one  saith,'— 


24  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"Legends  that  ran  from  mouth  to  mouth 
"Of  a  grey-coat  coming,    and  sack  of  the 

South. 

"These  have  I  also  heard — they  pass 
"With  each  new  spring  and  the  winter  grass. 

"Hot-foot,  southward,  forgotten  of  God, 

"Back  to  the  city  ran  Wali  Dad, 

"Even  to  Kabul — in  full  durbar 

"The  King  held  talk  with  his  Chief  in  War. 

"Into  the  press  of  the  crowd  he  broke, 

"And  what  he  had  heard  of  the  coming  spoke. 

"Then  Gholam  Hyder,  the  Red  Chief,  smiled, 
"As  a  mother  might  on  a  babbling  child  ; 
"But  those  who  would  laugh  restrained  their 

breath, 
"When  the  face  of  the  King  showed  dark  as 

death. 

"Evil  it  is  in  full  durbar 
"To  cry  to  a  ruler  of  gathering  war! 
"Slowly  he  led  to  a  peach-tree  small, 
"That  grew  by  a  cleft  of  the  city  wall. 
"And  he  said  to  the  boy :  'They  shall  praise  thy 

zeal 

"  'So  long  as  the  red  spurt  follows  the  steel. 
"  'And  the  Russ  is  upon  us  even  now? 
"  'Great  is  thy  prudence — await  them,  them. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  25 

"  'Watch  from  the  tree.    Thou  art  young  and 

strong, 
"  'Surely  thy  vigil  is  not  for  long. 

'The  Russ  is  upon  us,  thy  clamor  ran? 
"  'Surely  an  hour  shall  bring  their  van. 
"  'Wait  and  watch.     When  the  host  is  near, 
"  'Shout  aloud  that  my  men  may  hear.' 

"Friend  of  my  heart,  is  it  meet  or  wise 

"To  warn  a  King  of  his  enemies? 

"A  guard  was  set  that  he  might  not  flee — - 

"A  score  of  bayonets  ringed    he  tree. 

"The  peach-bloom  fell  -n  showers  of  snow, 

"When  he  shook  at  his  death  as  he  looked 

below. 

"By  the  power  of  God,  who  alone  is  great, 
"Till  the  seventh  day  he  fought  with  his  fate. 
"Then  madness  took  him,  and  men  declare 
"He  mowed  in  the  branches  as  ape  and  bear, 
"And  last  as  a  sloth  ere  his  body  failed, 
"And  he  hung  as  a  bat  in  the  forks,   and 

wailed, 

"And  sleep  the  cord  of  his  hands  untied, 
"And  he  fell,  and  was  caught  on  the  points  and 

died. 

"Heart  of  my  heart,  is  it  meet  or  wise 
"To  warn  :.  Kine  of  his  enemies  ? 


26  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"We  know  what  Heaven  or  Hell  may  bring, 
"But  no  man  knoweth  the  mind  of  the  King. 
"Of  the  grey-coat  coming  who  can  say? 
"When  the  night  is  gathering  all  is  grey. 
"Two  things  greater  than  all  things  are, 
"The  first  is  Love,  and  the  second  War. 
"And  since  we  know  not  how  War  may  prove, 
"Heart  of  my  heart,  let  us  talk  of  Love  I" 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOH  DA  THONE 

This  is  the  ballad  of  Boh  Da  Thone, 
Erst  a  Pretender  to  Theebaw's  throne, 
Who  harried  the  district  of  Alalone; 
How  he  met  with  his  fate  and  the  V .P.P. 
At  the  hand  of  Harendra  Mukerji, 
Senior  Gomashta,  G.B.T. 

BOH  DA  THONE  was  a  warrior  bold, 
His  sword  and  his  Snider  were  bossed  with 
gold, 

And  the  Peacock  Banner  his  henchman  bore 
Was  stiff  with  bullion,  but  stiffer  with  gore. 

He  shot  at  the  strong  and  he  slashed  at  the 

weak 
From  the  Salween  scrub  to  the  Chindwin  teak : 

He  crucified  noble,  he  sacrificed  mean, 
He  filled  old  women  with  kerosene: 

While  over  the  water  the  papers  cried, 
"The  patriot  fights  for  his  countryside !" 
27 


28  POEMS,  BALLADS 

But  little  they  cared  for  the  Native  Press, 
The  worn  white  soldiers  in  Khaki  dress, 

Who  tramped  through  the  jungle  and  camped 

in  the  byre, 
Who  died  in  the  swamp  and  were  tombed  in 

the  mire, 

Who  gave  up  their  lives,  at  the  Queen's  Com- 
mand, 

For  the  Pride  of  their  Race,  and  the  Peace  of 
the  Land. 

Now,  first  of  the  foemen  of  Boh  Da  Thone 
Was  Captain  O'Neil  of  the  "Black  Tyrone," 

And  his  was  a  Company,  seventy  strong, 
Who  hustled  that  dissolute  Chief  along. 

There  were  lads  from  Galway  and  Louth  and 

Meath 
Who  went  to  their  death  with  a  joke  in  their 

teeth, 

And  worshipped  with  fluency,  fervor,  and  zeal 
The  mud  on  the  boot-heels  of  "Crook"  O'Neil. 

But  ever  a  blight  on  their  labors  lay, 
And  ever  their  quarry  would  vanish  away, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  29 

Till  the  sun-dried  boys  of  the  Black  Tyrone 
Took  a  brotherly  interest  in  Boh  Da  Thone : 

And,  sooth,  if  pursuit  in  possession  ends, 
The  Boh  and  his  trackers  were  best  of  friends. 

The  word  of  a  scout — a  march  by  night — 
A  rush  through  the  mist — a  scattering  fight — 

A  volley  from  cover — a  corpse   in   the  clear- 
ing— 

The  glimpse  of  a  loin-cloth  and    heavy  jade 
earring — 

The  flare  of  a  village — the  tally  of  slain — 
And  .  .  .  the  Boh  was  abroad  "on  the  raid" 
again ! 

They  cursed  their  luck,  as  the  Irish  will, 
They  gave  him  credit  for  cunning  and  skill, 

They  buried  their  dead,  they  bolted  their  beef, 
And  started  anew  on  the  track  of  the  thief 

Till,  in  place  of  the  "Kalends  of  Greece,"  men 

said, 
"When  Crook  and  his  darlings  come  back  with 

the  head." 


jo  POEMS,  BALLADS 

They  hunted  the  Boh  from  the  hills  to  the 

plain — 
He  doubled  and  broke  for  the  hills  again: 

They  had  crippled  his  power  for  rapine  and 

raid 
They  had  routed  him  out  of  his  pet  stockade, 

And  at  last,  they  came,  when  the  Day  Star 

tired, 
To  a  camp  deserted — a  village  fired. 

A  black  cross  blistered  the  Morning-gold, 
And  the  body  upon  it  was  stark  and  cold. 

The  wind  of  the  dawn  went  merrily  past, 
The  high  grass  bowed  her  plumes  to  the  blast. 

And  out  of  the  grass,  on  a  sudden,  broke 
A  spirtle  of  fire,  a  whorl  of  smoke — 

And  Captain  O'Neil  of  the  Black  Tyrone 
Was  blessed  with  a  slug  in  the  ulna-bone — • 
The  gift  of  his  enemy  Boh  Da  Thone. 

(Now  a  slug  that  is  hammered  from  telegraph- 
wire 
Is  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  and  a  rankling  fire.)1 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  31 

The    shot-wound     festered — as     shot-wounds 

may 
In  a  steaming  barrack  at  Mandalay. 

The  left  arm  throbbed,  and  the  Captain  swore, 
"I'd  like  to  be  after  the  Boh  once  more!" 

The  fever  held  him — the  Captain  said, 
"I'd  give  a  hundred  to  look  at  his  head !" 

The  Hospital  punkahs  creaked  and  whirred, 
But  Babu  Harendra  (Gomashta)  heard. 

He  thought  of  the  cane-brake,  green  and  dank, 
That  girdled  his  home  by  the  Dacca  tank. 

He  thought  of  his  wife  and  his  High  School 

son. 
He  thought — but  abandoned  the  thought — of 

a  gun. 

His  sleep  was  broken  by  visions  dread 
Of  a  shining  Boh  with  a  silver  head. 

He  kept  his  counsel  and  went  his  way, 
And  swindled  the  cartmen  of  half  their  pay. 


32  POEMS,  BALLADS 

And  the  months  went  on,  as  the  worst  must 

do, 
And  the  Boh  returned  to  the  raid  anew. 

But  the  Captain  had   quitted  the  long-drawn 

strife, 
And  in  far  Simoorie  had  taken  a  wife. 

And  she  was  a  damsel  of  delicate  mould, 
With  hair  like  the  sunshine  and  heart  of  gold, 

And  little  she  knew  the  arms  that  embraced 
Had  cloven  a  man  from  the  brow  to  the  waist : 

And  little  she  knew  that  the  loving  lips 
Had  ordered  a  quivering  life's  eclipse, 

And  the  eye  that  lit  at  her  lightest  breath 
Had  glared  unawed  in  the  Gates  of  Death. 

(For  these  be  matters  a  man  would  hide, 
As  a  general  rule,  from  an  innocent  Bride.) 

And  little  the  Captain  thought  of  the  past, 

And,  of  all  men,  Babu  Harendra  last. 
****** 

But  slow,  in  the  sludge  of  the  Kathun  road, 
The  Government  Bullock  Train  toted  its  load. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  33 

Speckless  and  spotless  and  shining  with  ghee, 
In  the  rearmost  cart  sat  the  Babu-jee. 

And  ever  a  phantom  before  him  fled 
Of  a  scowling  Boh  with  a  silver  head. 

Then  the  lead-cart  stuck,  though    the  coolies 

slaved, 
And  the  cartmen  flogged  and  the  escort  raved ; 

And  out  of  the  jungle,  with  yells  and  squeals, 
Pranced  Boh  Da  Thone,  and  his  gang  at  his 
heels ! 

Then  belching  blunderbuss  answered  back 
The  Snider's  snarl  and  the  carbine's  crack, 

And  the  blithe  revolver  began  to  sing 

To  the  blade  that  twanged  on  the  locking-ring, 

And  the  brown  flesh  blued  where  the  bay'net 

kissed, 
As  the  steel  shot  back  with  a  wrench  and  a 

twist, 

And  the  great  white  bullocks  with  onyx  eyes 
Watched  the  souls  of  the  dead  arise, 


34  POEMS,  BALLADS 

And  over  the  smoke  of  the  fusillade 

The  Peacock  Banner  staggered  and  swayed. 

Oh,  gayest  of  scrimmages  man  may  see 
Is  a  well-worked  rush  on  the  G.B.T. ! 

The  Babu  shook  at  the  horrible  sight, 
And  girded  his  ponderous  loins  for  flight, 

But  Fate  had  ordained    that  the   Boh  should 

start 
On  a  lone-hand  raid  of  the  rearmost  cart, 

And  out  of  that  cart,  with  a  bellow  of  woe, 
The  Babu  fell— flat  on  the  top  of  the  Boh ! 

For  years  had  Harendra  served  the  State, 
To  the  growth  of  his  purse  and  the  girth  of  his 
pet— 

There   were   twenty  stone,   as  the  tally-man 

knows, 
On  the  broad  of  the  chest  of  this  best  of  Bohs. 

And  twenty  stone  from  a  height  discharged 
Are  bad  for  a  Boh  with  a  spleen  enlarged. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  35 

Oh,  short  was  the  struggle — severe  was  the 

shock — 
He  dropped  like  a  bullock — he  lay  like  a  block ; 

And  the  Babu  above  him,  convulsed  with  fear. 
Heard  the  laboring  life-breath  hissed  out  in 
his  ear. 

And  thus  in  a  fashion  undignified 

The  princely  pest  of  the  Chindwin  died. 
****** 

Turn  now  to  Simoorie  where,  lapped  in  his 

ease, 
The  Captain  is  petting  the  Bride  on  his  knees 

Where  the  whit  of  the  bullet,  the  wounded 

man's  scream 
Are    mixed    as    the    mist    of  some  devilish 

dream — 

Forgotten,  forgotten  the  sweat  of  the  sham- 
bles 

Where  the  hill-daisy  blooms  and  the  grey 
monkey  gambols, 

From  the  sword-belt  set   free  and  released 

from  the  steel, 
The  Peace  of  the  Lord  is  with  Captain  O'Neil. 


36  POExMiS,  BALLADS 

Up   the    hill   to   Simoorie — most    patient  of 

drudges, 
The  bags   on  his   shoulder,   the   mail-runner 

trudges. 

"For  Captain  O'Neil,  Sahib.  One  hundred  and 

ten 
Rupees  to  collect  on  delivery." 

Then 

(Their  breakfast  was  stopped  while  the  screw- 
jack  and  hammer 

Tore  wax-cloth,  split  teak-wood,  and  chipped 
out  the  dammer;) 

Open-eyed,    open-mouthed,    on    the    napery's 

snow, 
With  a  crash  and  a  thud,  rolled — the  Head  of 

the  Boh! 

And  gummed  to  the  scalp  was  a  letter  which 
ran: 

"!N  FIELDING  FORCE  SERVICE. 
Encampment, 

"loth  Jan. 

"Dear  Sir, — I  have  honor  to  send,  as  you  said, 
"For  final  approval  (see  under)  Boh's  Head; 

"Was  took  by  myself  in  most  bloody  affair. 
"By  High  Education  brought  pressure  to  bear. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  37 

"Now  violate  Liberty,  time  being  bad, 

"To  mail  V.P.P.  (rupees  hundred)  Please  add 

"Whatever  Your  Honor  can  pass.    Price  of 

Blood 
"Much  cheap  at  one  hundred,  and  children 

want  food. 

"So  trusting  Your  Honor  will  somewhat  re- 
tain 

"True  love  and  affection  for  Govt.  Bullock 
Train, 

"And  show  awful  kindness  to  satisfy  me, 
"I  am, 

"Graceful  Master, 
"Your 

"H.  Mukerji." 


As  the  rabbit  is  drawn  to  the  rattlesnake's 

power, 
As  the  smoker's  eye  fills  at  the  opium  hour, 

As  a  horse  reaches  up  to  the  manger  above, 
As  the  waiting  ear  yearns  for  the  whisper  of 
love, 


38  POEMS,  BALLADS 

From  the  arms  of  the  Bride,  iron-visaged  and 

slow, 
The  Captain  bent  down  to  the  Head  of  the 

Boh. 

And  e'en  as  he  looked  on  the  Thing  where  it 
lay 

'Twixt  the  winking  new  spoons  and  the  nap- 
kins' array, 

The    freed  mind    fled  back  to  the  long-ago 

days — 
The  hand-to-hand  scuffle — the  smoke  and  the 

blaze — 

The  forced  march  at  night  and  the  quick  rush 

at  dawn — 
The  banjo  at  twilight,  the  burial  ere  morn — > 

The  stench  of  the  marshes — the  raw,  piercing 

smell 
When  the  overhand  stabbing-cut  silenced  the 

yell— 

The  oaths  of  his  Irish  that  surged  when  they 

stood 
Where  the  black  crosses  hung  o'er  the  Kutta- 

mow  flood. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  39 

As  a  derelict  ship  drifts  away  with  the  tide 
The  Captain    went  out  on  the  Past  from  his 
Bride, 

Back,  back,  through  the  springs  to  the  chill  of 

the  year, 
When  he  hunted    the  Boh    from  Maloon  to 

Tsaleer. 

As  the  shape  of  a  corpse  dimmers  up  through 
deep  water, 

In  his  eye  lit  the  passionless  passion  of  slaugh- 
ter, 

And  men  who  had  fought  with  O'Neil  for  the 

life 
Had  gazed  on  his  face  with  less  dread  than  his 

wife. 

For  she  who  had  held  him  so  long  could  not 

hold  him — 
Though  a   four-month  Eternity   should  have 

controlled  him — 

But  watched  the  twin  Terror — the  head  turned 

to  head — 
The  scowling,  scarred  Black,   and  the  flushed, 

savage  Red — 


40  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  spirit  that  changed  from  her  knowing  and 

flew  to 
Some  grim  hidden  Past  she  had  never  a  clue 

to. 

But  It  knew  as  It  grinned,  for  he  touched  it 

un  fearing, 
And  muttered  aloud,  "So  you  kept  that  jade 

earring!" 

Then  nodded,  and  kindly,  as  friend  nods  to 

friend, 
"Old  man,  you  fought  well,  but  you  lost  in  the 

end." 


The  visions  departed,    and   Shame  followed 

Passion, 
"He  took  what  I  said  in  this  horrible  fashion, 

'777  write  to  Harendra !"    With  language  un- 

sainted 
The  Captain  came  back  to  the  Bride    .     .    . 

who  had  fainted. 

****** 

And  this  is  a  fiction?  No.  Go  to  Simoorie 
And  look    at  their  baby,  a  twelve-month  old 
Houri, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  41 

A  pert  little,  Irish-eyed  Kathleen  Mavournin — 
She's  always  about  on  the  Mall  of  a  mornin' — 

And  you'll  see,  if   her  right   shoulder-strap  is 

displaced, 
This:    Gules  upon    argent,   a    Boh's   Head, 

erased! 


O  WOE  is  me  for  the  merry  life 

I  led  beyond  the  Bar, 
And  a  treble  woe  for  my  winsome  wife 

That  weeps  at  Shalimar. 

They  have  taken  away  my  long  jezail, 

My  shield  and  sabre  fine, 
And  heaved  me  into  the  Central  Jail 

For  lifting  of  the  kine. 

The  steer  may  low  within  the  byre, 
The  Jut  may  tend  his  grain, 

But  there'll  be  neither  loot  nor  fire 
Till  I  come  back  again. 

And  God  have  mercy  on  the  Jut 

When  once  my  fetters  fall, 
And  Heaven  defend  the  farmer's  hut 

When  I  am  loosed  from  thrall. 

It's  woe  to  bend  the  stubborn  back 

Above  the  grinching  quern, 
It's  woe  to  hear  the  leg-bar  clack 

And  jingle  when  I  turn! 
42 


43 


But  for  the  sorrow  and  the  shame, 

The  brand  on  me  and  mine, 
I'll  pay  you  back  in  leaping  flame 

And  loss  of  the  butchered  kine. 

For  every  cow  I  spared  before 

In  charity  set  free, 
If  I  may  reach  my  hold  once  more 

I'll  reive  an  honest  three! 

For  every  time  I  raised  the  low 

That  scared  the  dusty  plain, 
By  sword  and  cord,  by  torch  and  tow 

I'll  light  the  land  with  twain! 

Ride  hard,  ride  hard,  to  Abazai, 

Young  Sahib  with  the  yellow  hair — 

Lie  close,  lie  close  as  khuttucks  lie, 
Fat  herds  below  Bonair! 

The  one  I'll  shoot  at  twilight  tide, 

At  dawn  I'll  drive  the  other; 
The  black  shall  mourn  for  hoof  and  hide, 

The  white  man  for  his  brother ! 

'Tis  war,  red  war,  I'll  give  you  then, 

War  till  my  sinews  fail, 

For  the  wrong  you    have  done  to  a  chief  of 
men 


44  POEMS,  BALLADS 

And  a  thief  of  the  Zukka  Kheyl. 

And  if  I  fall  to  your  hand  afresh 

I  give  you  leave  for  the  sin 
That  you  cram  my  throat  with  the  foul  pig's 
flesh 

And  swing  me  in  the  skin! 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  THREE 
CAPTAINS 

This  ballad  appears  to  refer  to  one  of  the  ex- 
ploits of  the  notorious  Paul  Jones,  the  Ameri- 
can Pirate.  It  is  founded  on  fact. 

.    .     .     AT  the  close  of  a  winter  day, 
Their  anchors  down,    by    London    town,  the 

Three  Great  Captains  lay. 
And  one  was  Admiral  of  the  North  from  Sol- 
way  Firth  to  Skye, 
And  one  was  Lord  of  the  Wessex  coast  and  all 

the  lands  thereby, 
And  one  was    Master    of  the    Thames    from 

Limehouse  to  Blackwall, 
And  he  was  Captain  of  the  Fleet — the  bravest 

of  them  all. 
Their  good  guns    guarded    their    great  grey 

sides  that  were  thirty  foot  in  the  sheer, 
When  there  came  a  certain  trading-brig  with 

news  of  a  privateer. 

45 


46  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Her  rigging  was  rough  with  the  clotted  drift 

that  drives  in  a  Northern  breeze, 
Her  sides  were  clogged  with    the   lazy   weed 

that  spawns  in  the  Eastern  seas. 
Light  she  rode  in  the  rude  tide-rip,  to  left  and 

right  she  rolled, 
And  the  skipper  sat  on  the  scuttle-butt  and 

stared  at  an  empty  hold. 
"I  ha'  paid  Port  dues  for  your  Law,"    quoth 

he,  "and  where  is  the  Law  ye  boast 
"If  I  sail  unscathed  from  a  heathen  port  to  be 

robbed  on  a  Christian  coast? 
"Ye  have  smoked  the  hives  of  the  Laccadives 

as  we  burn  the  lice  in  a  bunk  ; 
"We  tack  not   now  to  a   Gallang   prow  or  a 

plunging  Pei-ho  junk; 
"I  had  no  fear  but  the  seas  were  clear  as  far  as 

a  sail  might  fare 
"Till  I  met  with  a  lime-washed  Yankee  brig 

that  rode  off  Finisterre. 
"There  were    canvas    blinds  to  his    bow-gun 

ports  to  screen  the  weight  he  bore 
"And  the  signals  ran  for  a  merchantman  from 

Sandy  Hook  to  the  Nore. 
"He    would   not    fly  the    Rovers'    flag — the 

bloody  or  the  black, 
"But  now  he  floated  the  Gridiron  and  now  he 

flaunted  the  Jack. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  47 

"He  spoke  of  the  Law  as  he  crimped  my  crew 

— he  swore  it  was  only  a  loan ; 
"But  when  I  would  ask  for  my  own  again,  he 

swore  it  was  none  of  my  own. 
"He  has  taken  my   little  parrakeets   that  nest 

beneath  the  Line, 

"He  has  stripped  my    rails  of  the   shaddock- 
frails  and  the  green  unripened  pine ; 
"He  has  taken  my  bale  of  dammer  and  spice  I 

won  beyond  the  seas, 
"He  has  taken  my  grinning  heathen  gods — 

and  what  should  he  want  o'  these? 
"My  foremast  would  not  mend  his  boom,  my 

deck-house  patch  his  boats; 
"He  has  whittled  the  two  this  Yank  Yahoo, 

to  peddle  for  shoepeg-oats. 
"I  could  not  fight  for  the  failing  light  and  a 

rough  beam-sea  beside, 
"But  I  hulled  him  once  for  a  clumsy  crimp 

and  twice  because  he  lied. 
"Had  I  had  guns  (as  I  had  goods)  to  work  my 

Christian  harm, 
"I  had  run  him   up  from  his  quarter-deck  to 

trade  with  his  own  yard-arm; 
"I  had  nailed  his  ears  to  my  capstan-head,  and 

ripped  them  off  with  a  saw. 
"And    soused     them    in  the     bilgewater,  and 

served  them  to  him  raw; 


48  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"I  had  flung  him  blind  in  a  rudderless  boat  to 

rot  in  the  rocking  bark ; 
"I  had  towed  him  aft  of  his  own  craft,  a  bait 

for  his  brother  shark; 
"I  had  lapped  him  round  with  cocoa  husk,  and 

drenched  him  with  the  oil, 
"And  lashed  him  fast  to  his  own  mast  to  blaze 

above  my  spoil; 
"I  had  stripped  his  hide  for  my  hammock-side, 

and  tasselled  his  beard  i'  the  mesh 
"And  spitted  his  crew  on  the  live  bamboo  that 

grows  through  the  gangrened  flesh; 
"I    had   hove    him  down  by  the   mangroves 

brown,   where  the    mud-reef    sucks  and 

draws, 
"Moored  by  the  heel  to  his  own  keel  to  wait 

for  the  land-crab's  claws! 
"He  is  lazar  within  and  lime  without,  ye  can 

nose  him  far  enow, 
"For  he  carries  the  taint  of  a  musky  ship — the 

reek  of  the  slaver's  dhow!" 
The  skipper  looked  at  the  tiering  guns  and  the 

bulwarks  tall  and  cold, 
And    the   Captains    Three    full    courteously 

peered  down  at  the  gutted  hole, 
And   the   Captains   Three   called   courteously 

from  deck  to  scuttle-butt : 
"Good  Sir.  we  ha'  dealt  with  that  merchant- 
man or  ever  your  teeth  were  cut. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  49 

"Your  words  be  words  of  a  lawless  race,  and 

the  Law  it  standeth  thus: 
"He  comes  of  a  race  that  have  never  a  Law, 

and  he  never  has  boarded  us. 
"We  ha'  sold  him  canvas  and  rope  and  spar — 

we  know  that  his  price  is  fair, 
"And  we  know  that  he  weeps  for  the  lack  of  a 

Law  as  he  rides  off  Finisterre. 
"And  since  he  is  damned  for  a  gallows-thief 

by  you  and  better  than  you, 
"We  hold  it  meet  that  the  English  fleet  should 

know  that  we  hold  him  true." 
The  skipper  called  to  the  tall  taffrail:  "And 

what  is  that  to  me? 
"Did  ever  you  hear  of  a  privateer  that  rifled  a 

Seventy-three  ? 
"Do  I  loom  so  large  from  your  quarter-deck 

that  I  lift  like  a  ship  o'  the  Line? 
"He  has  learned  to  rim  from  a  shotted  gun  and 

harry  such  craft  as  mine. 
"There  is  never  a  Law  on  the  Cocos  Keys  to 

hold  a  white  man  in, 
"But  we  do  not  steal  the  niggers'  meal,  for 

that  is  a  nigger's  sin. 
"Must  he  have  his  Law  as  a  quid  to  chaw,  or 

laid  in  brass  on  his  wheel? 
"Does  he  steal  with  tears  when  he  buccaneers  r 

'Fore  Gad,  then,  why  does  he  steal?" 


50  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  skipper  bit  on  a  deep-sea  word,  and  the 

word  it  was  not  sweet, 

For  he  could  see  the  Captains  Three  had  sig- 
nalled to  the  Fleet. 
But  three    and  two,     in  white  and    blue,  the 

whimpering  flags  began: 
"We  have  heard  a  tale  of  a  foreign  sail,  but 

he  is  a  merchantman." 
The    skipper    peered     beneath  his    palm    and 

swore  by  the  Great  Horn  Spoon, 
'  'Fore  Gad,  the  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet  would 

bless  my  picaroon!" 
By  two  and  three  the  flags  flew  free  to  lash 

the  laughing  air, 
"We  have  sold  our  spars  to  the  merchantman 

— we  know  that  his  price  is  fair." 
The  skipper    winked    his  Western    eye,   and 

swore  by  a  China  storm: 
"They  ha'  rigged  him  a  Joseph's  jury-coat  to 

keep  his  honor  warm." 
The  halliards  twanged  against  the  tops,  the 

bunting  bellied  broad. 
The   skipper   spat  in    the    empty    hold    and 

mourned  for  a  wasted  cord. 
Masthead — masthead,  the  signal  sped  by  the 

line  o'  the  British  craft; 
The  skipper  called  to  his  Lascar  crew,  and  put 

her  about  and  laughed; 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  51 

"It's  mainsail  haul,  my  bully  boys  all — we'll 

out  to  the  seas  again; 
"Ere  they  set  us  to  paint  their  pirate  saint,  or 

scrub  at  his  grapnel-chain 
"It's  fore-sheet  free,  with  her  head  to  the  sea, 

and  the  swing  of  the  unbought  brine — 
"We'll  make  no  sport  in  an  English  court  till 

we  come  as  a  ship  o'  the  Line, 
"Till  we  come  as  a  ship  o'  the  Line,  my  lads, 

of  thirty  foot  in  the  sheer, 
"Lifting  again  from  an  outer  main  with  news 

of  a  privateer; 
"Flying  his  pluck  at  our  mizzen-truck  for  weft 

of  Admiralty, 
"Heaving  his  head  for  our  dipsy-lead  in  sign 

that  we  keep  the  sea. 
"Then  fore-sheet  home  as  she  lifts  to  the  foam 

— we  stand  on  the  outward  tack 
"We  are  paid  in  the  coin  of  the  white  man's 

trade — the  bezant  is  hard,  ay,  and  black. 
"The  frigate-bird  shall  carry  my  word  to  the 

Kling  and  the  Orang-Laut 
"How  a  man  may  sail  from  a  heathen  coast  to 

be  robbed  in  a  Christian  port ; 
"How  a  man  may  be  robbed  in  Christian  port 

while  Three  Great  Captains  there 
"Shall  dip  their  flag  to  a  slaver's  rag — to  show 

that  his  trade  is  fairl" 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE 
"CLAMPHERDOWN" 

IT  was  our  war-ship  "Clampherdown" 

Would  sweep  the  Channel  clean, 
Wherefore  she  kept  her  hatches  close 
When  the  merry  Channel  chops  arose, 

To  save  the  bleached  marine. 

She  had  one  bow-gun  of  a  hundred  ton, 

And  a  great  stern-gun  beside; 
They  dipped  their  noses  deep  in  the  sea, 
They  racked  their  stays  and  staunchions  free 

In  the  wash  of  the  wind-whipped  tide. 

It  was  our  war-ship  "Clampherdown," 

Fell  in  with  a  cruiser  light, 
That  carried  the  dainty  Hotchkiss  gun 
And  a  pair  o'  heels  wherewith  to  run, 

From  the  grip  of  a  close-fought  fight. 

She  opened  fire  at  seven  miles — 

As  ye  shoot  at  a  bobbing  cork — 
And  once  she  fired  and  twice  she  fired, 
Till  the  bow-gun  drooped  like  a  lily  tired 

That  lolls  upon  the  stalk. 

52 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  53 

"Captain,  the  bow-gun  melts  apace, 

"The  deck-beams  break  below, 
"  'Twere  well  to  rest  for  an  hour  or  twain, 
"And  botch  the  shattered  plates  again." 

And  he  answered,  "Make  it  so." 

She  opened  fire  within  the  mile — 

As  ye  shoot  at  the  flying  duck — 
And  the  great  stern-gun  shot  fair  and  true, 
With  the  heave  of  the   ship,  to  the  stainless 

blue, 
And  the  great  stern-turret  stuck. 

"Captain,  the  turret  fills  with  steam, 

"The  feed-pipes  burst  below — 
"You  can  hear  the  hiss  of  helpless  ram, 
"You  can  hear  the  twisted  runners  jam." 

And  he  answered,  "Turn  and  go !" 

It  was  our  war-ship  "Clampherdown," 

And  grimly  did  she  roll; 
Swung  round  to  take  the  cruiser's  fire 
As  the  White  Whale  faces  the  Thresher's  ire 

When  they  war  by  the  frozen  Pole. 

"Captain,  the  shells  are  falling  fast, 

"And  faster  still  fall  we; 
"And  it  is  not  meet  for  English  stock, 
"To  bide  in  the  heart  of  an  eight-day  clock, 

"The  death  they  cannot  see." 


54  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"Lie  down,  lie  down,  my  bold  A.B., 
"We  drift  upon  her  beam; 

"We  dare  not  ram  for  she  can  run ; 

"And  dare  ye  fire  another  gun, 
"And  die  in  the  peeling  steam  ?" 


It  was  our  war-ship  "Clampherdown" 

That  carried  an  armor-belt; 
But  fifty  feet  at  stern  and  bow, 
Lay  bare  as  the  paunch  of  the  purser's  sow, 

To  the  hail  of  the  Nordenfeldt. 


"Captain,  they  lack  us  through  and  through; 

"The  chilled  steel  bolts  are  swift! 
"We  have  emptied  the  bunkers  in  open  sea, 
"Their  shrapnel  bursts  where  our  coal  should 
be." 

And  he  answered,  "Let  her  drift." 


It  was  our  war-ship  "Clampherdown," 

Swung  round  upon  the  tide, 
Her  two  dumb  guns  glared  south  and  north, 
And  the  blood  and    the  bubbling    steam  ran 
forth, 

And  she  ground  the  cruiser's  side. 


\ 


J-'cli 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  55 

"Captain,  they  cry,  the  fight  is  done, 
"They  bid  you  send  your  sword." 

And  he  answered,  "Grapple  her  stern  and  bow. 

"They  have  asked  for  the  steel.     They  shall 

have  it  now ; 
"Out  cutlasses  and  board!" 


It  was  our  war-ship  "Clampherdown," 

Spewed  up  four  hundred  men ; 
And  the  scalded  stokers  yelped  delight, 
As  they  rolled  in  the  waist  and  heard  the  fight, 

Stamp  o'er  their  steel-walled  pen. 

They  cleared  the  cruiser  end  to  end, 

From  conning-tower  to  hold. 
They  fought  as  they  fought  in  Nelson's  fleet: 
They  were  stripped  to  the  waist,  they  were 
bare  to  the  feet, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old. 

It  was  the  sinking  "Clampherdown" 

Heaved  up  her  battered  side — 
And  carried  a  million  pounds  in  steel, 
To  the  cod  and  the  corpse- fed  conger-eel, 

And  the  scour  of  the  Channel  tide. 


56  POEMS,  BALLADS 

It  was  the  crew  of  the  "Clampherdown* 

Stood  out  to  sweep  the  sea, 
On  a  cruiser  won  from  an  ancient  foe, 
As  it  was  in  the  days  of  long-ago, 
And  as  it  still  shall  be. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "BOLIVAR" 

Seven  men  from  all  the  world,  back  to  Docks 

again, 
Rolling  down  the  Ratcliffe   Road   drunk  and 

raising  Cain; 
Give  the  girls  another  drink  'fore  we  sign 

aivay — 
We   that    took    the   "Bolivar"  out  across  the 

Bay! 

WE  put  out  from  Sunderland  loaded  down 

with  rails; 
We  put  back  to  Sunderland  'cause  our  cargo 

shifted; 
We  put  out  from  Sunderland — met  the  winter 

gales — 

Seven  days  and  seven  nights  to  the  Start  we 
drifted. 

Racketing    her    rivets    loose,    smoke-stack 

white  as  snow, 
All  the  coals  adrift  a  deck,  half  the  rails 

below 
Leaking  like  a  lobster-pot,   steering  like  a 

dray — 
Out  we  took  the  "Bolivar,"  out  across  the 

Bay! 

57 


58  POEMS,  BALLADS 

One  by  one  the  Lights  came  up,  winked  and 

let  us  by; 
Mile  by    mile    we  waddled    on,   coal  and 

fo'c'sle  short; 

Met  a  blow  that  laid  us  down,  heard  a  bulk- 
head fly; 

Left  The  Wolf  behind  us  with  a  two  foot- 
list  to  port. 

Trailing  like  a  wounded  duck,  working  out 

her  soul ; 
Clanging    like    a    smith-shop    after    every 

roll; 
Just  a  funnel  and  a  mast  lurching  through 

the  spray — 
So  we  threshed  the  "Bolivar"  out  across  the 

Bay! 

Felt  her  hog  and  felt  her  sag,  betted  when 

she'd  break; 
Wondered  every    time  she    raced    if  she'd 

stand  the  shock ; 
Heard  the  seas  like  drunken  men  pounding  at 

her  strake; 
Hoped  the  Lord  'ud  keep  his  thumb  on  the 

plummer-block. 
Banged     against    the    iron    decks,     bilges 

choked  with  coal; 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  59 

Flayed  and  frozen  foot  and  hand,  sick  of 

heart  and  soul; 
'Last  we  prayed    she'd   buck     herself    into 

Judgment  Day — 
Hi!    we    cursed    the   "Bolivar"   knocking 

round  the  Bay ! 

Oh!  her  nose  flung  up  to  sky,  groaning  to  be 

still- 
Up  and  down  and  back  we  went,  never  time 

for  breath; 
Then  the  money  paid  at  Lloyd's  caught  her  by 

the  heel, 

And  the  stars  ran  round  and  round  dancin' 
at  our  death. 

Aching  for  an  hour's  sleep,  dozing  off  be- 
tween ; 

Heard  the  rotten  rivets  draw  when  she  took 
it  green ; 

Watched  the  compass  chase  its  tail  like  a 
cat  at  play — 

That  was  on  the  "Bolivar,"  south  across 
the  Bay. 

Once  we  saw  between  the  squalls,  lyin*  head 

to  swell — 

Mad  with  work  and  weariness,  wishin'  they 
was  we — 


60  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Some  damned  Liner's  lights  go  by  like  a  grand 

hotel ; 

Cheered  her  from  the  "Bolivar,"  swampin' 
in  the  sea. 

Then  a   greyback    cleared  us  out,   then  the 

skipper  laughed ; 
"Boys,  the  wheel  has  gone  to  Hell — rig  the 

winches  aft! 
"Yoke    the    kicking    rudder-head — get  her 

under  way!" 
So  we  steered   her,  pulley-haul,   out  across 

the  Bay ! 

Just  a  pack  o'  rotten  plates  puttied  up  with  tar, 
In  we  came,  an'  time  enough  'cross  Bilbao  Bar. 
Overloaded,  undermanned,  meant  to  founder, 

we 
Euchred  God    Almighty's    storm,    bluffed  the 

Eternal  Sea! 

Seven  men  from  all  the  world,  back  to  town 
again, 

^Rollin'  down  the  Ratcliffe  Road  drunk  and 
raising  Cain; 

Seven  men  from  out  of  Hell.  Ain't  the  own- 
ers gay, 

'Cause  we  took  the  "Bolivar"  safe  across  the 
Bay? 


THE  ENGLISH  FLAG 

Above  the  portico  a  flagstaff,  bearing  the 
Union  Jack,  remained  fluttering  in  the  flames 
for  some  time,  but  ultimately  when  it  fell  the 
crowds  rent  the  air  with  shouts,  and  seemed 
to  see  significance  in  the  incident. — DAILY 
PAPERS. 

WINDS  of  the  World,  give  answer?    They  are 

whimpering-  to  and  fro — 
And  what  should  they  know  of  England  who 

only  England  know? — 
The  poor  little  street-bred    people   that  vapor 

and  fume  and  brag, 
They  are  lifting  their  heads  in  the  stillness  to 

yelp  at  the  English  Flag! 

Must  we  borrow   a  clout   from  the  Boer — to 
plaster  anew  with  dirt? 

An  Irish  liar's  bandage,  or  an  English  cow- 
ard's shirt? 

We  may  not  speak  of  England;  her  Flag's  to 
sell  or  share. 

What  is  the  Flag  of  England?    Winds  of  the 
World,  declare! 

61 


62  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  North  Wind   blew:    "From   Bergen  my 

steel-shod  vanguards  go; 
"I  chase  your  lazy    whalers   home    from   the 

Disko  floe; 
"By  the  great  North  Lights  above  me  I  work 

the  will  of  God, 
"That  the  liner  splits  on  the  ice-field  or  the 

Dogger  fills  with  cod. 


"I  barred  my  gates  with  iron,  I  shuttered  my 

doors  with  flame, 
"Because  to  force  my  ramparts  your  nutshell 

navies  came; 
"I  took  the  sun  from  their  presence,  I  cut  them 

down  with  my  blast, 
"And  they  died,  but  the  Flag  of  England  blew 

free  ere  the  spirit  passed. 


"The  lean  white  bear  hath  seen  it  in  tfie  long, 

long  Arctic  night, 
"The  musk-ox  knows  the  standard  that  flouts 

the  Northern  Light: 
"What  is  the  Flag  of  England?  Ye  have  but 

my  bergs  to  dare, 
"Ye  have  but  my  drifts  to  conquer.    Go  forth, 

for  it  is  there !" 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  63 

The  South  Wind  sighed:  "From  the  Virgins 

my  mid-sea  course  was  ta'en 
"Over  a  thousand  islands  lost  in  an  idle  main, 
"Where  the  sea-egg  flames  on  the  coral  and 

the  long-backed  breakers  croon 
"Their    endless    ocean  legends    to  the  lazy, 

locked  lagoon. 

"Strayed  amid  lonely  islets,  mazed  amid  outer 
keys, 

"I  waked  the  palms  to  laughter — I  tossed  the 
scud  in  the  breeze — 

"Never  was  isle  so  little,  never  was  sea  so  lone, 

"But  over  the  scud  and  the  palm-trees  an  Eng- 
lish flag  was  flown. 

"I  have  wrenched  it  free  from  the  halliard  to 
hang  for  a  wisp  on  the  Horn ; 

"I  have  chased  it  north  to  the  Lizard — rib- 
boned and  rolled  and  torn ; 

"I  have  spread  its  folds  o'er  the  dying,  adrift 
in  a  hopeless  sea; 

"I  have  hurled  it  swift  on  the  slaver,  and  seen 
the  slave  set  free. 

"My  basking   sunfish   know  it,    and  wheeling 

albatross, 
"Where  the  lone  wave  fills  with  fire  beneath 

the  Southern  Cross. 


64  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"What  is  the  Flag  of  England  ?    Ye  have  but 

my  reefs  to  dare, 
"Ye  have  but  my  seas  to  furrow.     Go  forth, 

for  it  is  there!" 

The  East  Wind  roared:     "From  the  Kuriles, 

the  Bitter  Seas,  I  come, 
"And  me  men  call  the  Home- Wind,  for  I  bring 

the  English  home. 
"Look — look  well  to  your  shipping!     By  the 

breath  of  my  mad  typhoon 
"I  swept  your  close-packed  Praya  and  beached 

your  best  at  Kowloon! 

"The  reeling  junks  behind  me  and  the  racing 

seas  before, 
"I  raped  your  richest  roadstead — I  plundered 

Singapore ! 
"I  set  my  hand  on  the  Hoogli;  as  a  hooded 

snake  she  rose, 
"And  I  flung  your  stoutest  steamers  to  roost 

with  the  startled  crows. 

"Never  the  lotos  closes,  never  the  wild-fowl 

wake, 
"But  a  soul  goes  out   on  the  East   Wind  that 

died  for  England's  sake — 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  65 

"Man  or  woman  or  suckling,  mother  or  bride 
or  maid — 

"Because  on  the  bones  of  the  English  the  Eng- 
lish Flag  is  stayed. 

"The  desert-dust  hath   dimmed  it,  the   flying 

wild-ass  knows 
"The  scared  white  leopard  winds  it  across  the 

taintless  snows. 
"What  is  the  Flag  of  England?  Ye  have  but 

my  sun  to  dare, 
"Ye  have  but  my  sands  to  travel.  Go  forth, 

for  it  is  there !" 

The  West  Wind  called :    "In  squadrons  the 
thoughtless  galleons  fly 

"That  bear  the  wheat  and  cattle  lest  street- 
bred  people  die. 

"They  make  my  might  their  porter,  they  make 
my  house  their  path, 

"Till  I  loose  my  neck  from  their  rudder  and 
whelm  them  all  in  my  wrath. 

"I  draw  the  gliding  fog-bank  as  a  snake  is 

drawn  from  the  hole; 
"They  bellow  one  to  the  other,  the  frighted 

ship-bells  toll, 


66  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"For  day  is  a  drifting    terror  till  I  raise  the 

shroud  with  my  breath, 
"And  they  see  strange  bows  above  them  and 

the  two  go  locked  to  death. 

"But  whether  in  calm  or  wrack-wreath, 
whether  by  dark  or  day, 

"I  heave  them  whole  to  the  conger  or  rip  their 
plates  away, 

"First  of  the  scattered  legions,  under  a  shriek- 
ing sky, 

"Dipping  between  the  rollers,  the  English 
Flag  goes  by. 

"The  dead  dumb  fog  hath  wrapped  it — the 

frozen  dews  have  kissed — 
"The  naked  stars  have  seen  it,  a  fellow-star  in 

the  mist. 
"What  is  the  Flag  of  England  ?    Ye  have  but 

my  breath  to  dare, 
"Ye  have  but  my  waves  to  conquer.    Go  forth, 

for  it  is  there!" 


"CLEARED" 

(IN  MEMORY  OF  A  COMMISSION) 

HELP  for  a  patriot  distressed,  a  spotless  spirit 
hurt, 

Help  for  an  honorable  clan  sore  trampled  in 
the  dirt! 

From  Queenstown  Bay  to  Donegal,  O  listen  to 
my  song, 

The  honorable  gentlemen  have  suffered  griev- 
ous wrong. 

Their  noble  names  were  mentioned — O  the 
burning,  black  disgrace! — 

By  a  brutal  Saxon  paper  in  an  Irish  shooting- 
case; 

They  sat  upon  it  for  a  year,  then  steeled  their 
heart  to  brave  it, 

And  "coruscating  innocence"  the  learned 
Judges  gave  it. 

Bear  witness,  Heaven,  of  that  grim  crime  be- 
neath the  surgeon's  knife, 

The  honorable  gentleman  deplored  the  loss  of 
life; 


68  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Bear   witness  of    those   chanting  choirs   that 

burk  and  shirk  and  snigger, 
No  man  laid  hand  upon  the  knife  or  finger  to 

the  trigger! 

Cleared  in  the  face  of  all  mankind  beneath  the 

winking  skies, 
Like  phoenixes  from  Phoenix  Park  (and  what 

lay  there)  they  rise! 
Go  shout  it  to  the  emerald  seas — give  word  to 

Erin  now, 
Her    honorable   gentlemen   are   cleared — and 

this  is  how: 

They  only  paid  the  Moonlighter  his  cattle- 
hocking  price, 

They  only  helped  the  murderer  with  council's 
best  advice, 

But — sure    it    keeps   their   honor    white — the 
learned  Court  believes 

They  never  gave  a  piece  of  plate  to  murderers 
and  thieves. 

They  never  told  the  ramping  crowd  to  card  a 

woman's  hide, 
They  never  marked  a  man    for   death — what 

fault  of  theirs  he  died  ? — 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  69 

They  only  said  "intimidate,"  and  talked  and 

went  away — 
By   God,   the  boys   that  did   the  work   were 

braver  men  than  they ! 

Their  sin  it  was  that  fed  the  fire — small  blame 
to  them  that  heard — 

The  "bhoys"  get  drunk  on  rhetoric,  and  mad- 
den at  the  word — 

They  knew  whom  they  were  talking  at,  if  they 
were  Irish  too, 

The  gentlemen  that  lied  in  Court,  they  knew 
and  well  they  knew. 

They  only  took  the  Judas-gold  from  Fenians 
out  of  jail, 

They  only  fawned  for  dollars  on  the  blood- 
dyed  Clan-na-Gael. 

If  black  is  black  or  white  is  white,  in  black  and 
white  it's  down, 

They're  only  traitors  to  the  Queen  and  rebels 
to  the  Crown. 

"Cleared,"  honorable  gentlemen.     Be  thankful 

it's  no  more : 
The  widow's  curse  is  on  your  house,  the  dead 

are  at  your  door. 


70  POEMS,  BALLADS 

On  you  the  shame  of  open  shame,  on  you  from 

North  to  South 
The  hand   of   every   honest   man   flat-heeled 

across  your  mouth. 

"Less  black  than  we  were  painted"? — Faith, 

no  word  of  black  was  said; 
The  lightest  touch  was  human  blood,  and  that, 

ye  know,  runs  red. 
It's  sticking  to  your  fist  to-day,  for  all  your 

sneer  and  scoff, 
And  by  the   Judge's   well-weighed   word  you 

cannot  wipe  it  off. 

Hold  up  those  hands  of  innocence — go,  scare 
your  sheep  together, 

The  blundering,  tripping  tups  that  bleat  be- 
hind the  old  bell-weather ; 

And  if  they  snuff  the  taint  and  break  to  find 
another  pen, 

Tell  them  it's  tar  that  glistens  so,  and  daub 
them  yours  again! 

"The  charge  is  old"? — As  old  as  Cain — as 

fresh  as  yesterday; 
Old  as  the  Ten  Commandments,  have  ye  talked 

those  laws  away? 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  71 

If  words  are  words,  or  death  is  death,  or  pow- 
der sends  the  ball, 

You  spoke  the  words  that  sped  the  shot — the 
curse  be  on  you  all. 

"Our  friends  believe"?  Of  course  they  do — as 
sheltered  women  may; 

But  have  they  seen  the  shrieking  soul  ripped 
from  the  quivering  clay? 

They! — if  their  own  front  door  is  shut,  they'll 
swear  the  whole  world's  warm; 

What  do  they  know  of  dread  of  death  or  hang- 
ing fear  of  harm? 

The  secret  half  a  county  keeps,  the  whisper  in 

the  lane, 
The  shriek  that  tells  the  shot  went  home  behind 

the  broken  pane, 
The  dry  blood  crisping  in  the  sun  that  scares 

the  honest  bees, 
And  shows  the  "bhoys"  have  heard  your  talk 

— what  do  they  know  of  these  ? 

But  you — you  know — ay,  ten  times  more;  the 

secrets  of  the  dead, 
Black  terror  on  the  country-side,  by  word  and 

whisper  bred, 


72  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  mangled  stallion's    scream    at    night,  the 

tail-cropped  heifer's  low. 
Who  set  the  whisper  going  first?    You  know, 

and  well  you  know! 

My  soul!  I'd  sooner  lie  in  jail  for  murder 
plain  and  straight, 

Pure  crime  I'd  done  with  my  own  hand  for 
money,  lust,  or  hate, 

Than  take  a  seat  in  Parliament  by  fellow- 
felons  cheered, 

While  one  of  those  "not  provens"  proved  me 
cleared  as  you  are  cleared. 

Cleared — you  that  "lost"  the  League  accounts 

— go,  guard  our  honor  still, 
Go,  help  to  make  our  country's  laws  that  broke 

God's  law  at  will — 
One  hand  stuck  out  behind  the  back,  to  signal 

"strike  again"; 
The  other  on  your  dress-shirt-front  to  show 

your  heart  is  clane. 

If  black  is  black  or  white  is  white,  in  black  and 

white  it's  down, 
You're  only  traitors  to  the  Queen  and  rebels 

to  the  Crown. 
If  print    is  print    or   words    are   words,    the 

learned  Court  perpends : 
We  are  not  ruled  by  murderers,  but  only — by 

their  friends. 


AN  IMPERIAL  RESCRIPT 

Now  this  is  the  tale  of  the  Council  the  German 

Kaiser  decreed, 
To  ease  the  strong  of  their  burden,  to  help  the 

weak  in  their  nted : 
He  sent  a  word  to  the  peoples,  who   struggle, 

and  pant,  and  sweat, 
That  the  straw  might  be  counted  fairly  and 

the  tally  of  bricks  be  set. 

The  Lords  of  Their  Hands  assembled;  from 

the  East  and  the  West  they  drew — 
Baltimore,    Lille,    and     Essen,    Brummagem, 

Clyde,  and  Crewe. 
And  some  were  black    from  the    furnace,  and 

some  were  brown  from  the  soil, 
And  some  were  blue  from  the  dye-vat;  but  all 

were  wearied  of  toil. 

And  the  young  King  said,  "I   have  found  it, 

the  road  to  the  rest  ye  seek 
"The  strong  shall  wait  for  the  weary,  the  hale 

shall  halt  for  the  weak; 

73 


"With  the  even  tramp  of    an  army  where  no 

man  breaks  from  the  line, 
"Ye  shall  march  to  peace  and    plenty  in  the 

bond  of  brotherhood — sign!" 

The  paper  lay  on  the   table,  the   strong  heads 

bowed  thereby, 
And  a  wail  went  up  from  the  peoples:  "Ay, 

sign — give  rest,  for  we  die !" 
A  hand  was  stretched  to  the  goose-quill,  a  fist 

was  cramped  to  scrawl, 
When — the  laugh  of  a  blue-eyed  maiden  ran 

clear  through  the  council-hall. 

And  each  one  heard  Her  laughing  as  each  one 

saw  Her  plain — 
Saidie,  Mimi,  or  Olga,    Gretchen,    or  Mary 

Jane. 
And  the  Spirit  of  Man  that  is  in  Him  to  the 

light  of  the  vision  woke; 
And  the  men  drew  back  from  the  paper,  as  a 

Yankee  delegate  spoke : 

"There's  a  girl  in  Jersey  City  who  works  on 

the  telephone; 
"We're  going  to  hitch  our  horses  and  dig  for 

a  house  of  our  own. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  75 

"With  gas  and  water  connections,  and  steam- 
heat  through  to  the  top; 

"And,  W.  Hohenzollern,  I  guess  I  shall  work 
till  I  drop." 

And  an  English   delegate  thundered:     "The 

weak  an*  the  lame  be  blowed! 
"I've  a  berth  in  the  Sou'-West  workshops,  a 

home  in  the  Wandsworth  Road ; 
"And  till  the  'sociation  has  footed  my  buryin' 

bill, 
"I  work  for  the  kids  an'  the  missus.     Pull  up! 

I'll  be  damned  if  I  will!" 

And  over  the  German  benches  the  bearded 

whisper  ran: 
"Lager,  der  girls  und  der  dollars,  dey  makes 

or  dey  breaks  a  man. 
"If  Schmitt  haf  collared  der  dollars,  he  collars 

der  girl  deremit; 
"But  if  Schmitt  bust  in  der  pizness,  we  collars 

der  girl  from  Schmitt." 

They  passed  one  resolution:  ''Your  sub-com- 
mittee believe 

"You  can  lighten  the  curse  of  Adam  when 
you've  lightened  the  curse  of  Eve. 


76  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"But  till  we  are  built  like  angels — with  ham- 
mer and  chisel  and  pen, 

"We  will  work  for  ourself  and  a  woman,  for- 
ever and  ever.  Amen." 

Now  this  is  the  tale  of  the  Council  the  German 

Kaiser  held — 
The  day  that  they  razored  the  Grindstone,  the 

day  that  the  Cat  was  belled, 
The  day  of  the  Figs  from  Thistles,  the  day  of 

the  Twisted  Sands, 
The  day  that  the  laugh  of  a  maiden  made  light 

of  the  Lords  of  Their  Hands. 


Now   Tomlinson   gave  up   the   ghost    in  his 

house  in  Berkeley  Square, 
And  a  Spirit  came  to  his  bedside  and  gripped 

him  by  the  hair — 
A  Spirit  gripped  him  by  the  hair  and  carried 

him  far  away, 
Till  he  heard  as  the  roar  of  a  rain-fed  ford  the 

roar  of  the  Milky  Way, 
Till  he  heard  the  roar  of  the  Milky  Way  die 

down  and  drone  and  cease, 
And  they  came  to  the  Gate  within  the  Wall 

where  Peter  holds  the  keys. 
"Stand  up,  stand  up  now,  Tomlinson,  and  an- 
swer loud  and  high 
"The  good  that  ye  did  for  the  sake  of  men  or 

ever  ye  came  to  die — 
"The  good  that  ye  did  for  the  sake  of  men  in 

little  earth  so  lone!" 
And  the  naked  soul  of  Tomlinson  grew  white 

as  a  rain-washed  bone. 
"O,  I  have  a  friend  on  earth,"  he  said,  "that 

was  my  priest  and  guide, 
"And  well  would  he  answer  all  for  me  if  he 

were  by  my  side." 

77 


78  POEMS,  BALLADS 

— "For  that  ye  strove  in  neighbor-love  it  shall 

be  written  fair, 
"But  now  ye  wait  at  Heaven's  Gate  and  not  in 

Berkeley  Square: 
"Though  we  called  your  friend  from  his  bed 

this  night,  he  could  not  speak  for  you, 
"For  the  race  is  run  by  one  and  one  and  never 

by  two  and  two." 

Then  Tomlinson  looked  up  and  down,  and  lit- 
tle gain  was  there, 
For  the  naked  stars  grinned  overhead,  and  he 

saw  that  his  soul  was  bare: 
The  Wind  that  blows  between  the  worlds,  it 

cut  him  like  a  knife, 
And  Tomlinson  took  up  his  tale  and  spoke  of 

his  good  in  life. 
"This  I  have  read  in  a  book,"  he  said,  "and 

that  was  told  to  me, 
"And  this  I  have  thought  that  another  man 

thought  of  a  Prince  in  Muscovy." 
The  good  souls  flocked  like  homing  doves  and 

bade  him  clear  the  path, 
And  Peter  twirled  the  jangling  keys  in  weari- 

nes  and  wrath. 
"Ye  have      read,    ye    have    heard,    ye    have 

thought,"  he  said,  "and  the  tale  is  yet  to 

run: 
"By  the  worth  of  the  body  that  once  ye  had, 

£ive  answer — what  ha'  ye  done?" 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  79 

Then  Tomlinson  looked  back  and  forth,  and 
little  good  it  bore, 

For  the  Darkness  stayed  at  his  shoulder-blade 
and  Heaven's  Gate  before: 

"Oh,  this  I  have  felt,  and  this  I  have  guessed, 
and  this  I  have  heard  men  say, 

"And  this  they  wrote  that  another  man  wrote 
of  a  carl  in  Norroway." 

"Ye  have  read,  ye  have  felt,  ye  have  guessed, 
good  lack!  Ye  have  hampered  Heaven's 
Gate; 

"There's  little  room  between  the  stars  in  idle- 
ness to  prate! 

"Oh,  none  may  reach  by  hired  speech  of 
neighbor,  priest,  and  kin, 

"Through  borrowed  deed  to  God's  good  meed 
that  lies  so  far  within; 

"Get  hence,  get  hence  to  the  Lord  of  Wrong, 
for  doom  has  yet  to  run, 

"And  ...  the  faith  that  ye  share  with 
Berkeley  Square  uphold  you,  Tomlin- 
son!" 


The  Spirit  gripped  him  by  the  hair,  and  sun  by 

sun  they  fell 
Till  they  came  to  the  belt  of  Naughty  Stars 

that  rim  the  mouth  of  Hell: 


8o  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  first  are  red  with  pride  and  wrath,  the 

next  are  white  with  pain, 
But  the  third  are  black  with  clinkered  sin  that 

cannot  burn  again: 
They  may  hold    their    path,  they    may  leave 

their  path,  with  never  a  soul  to  mark, 
They  may  burn  or  freeze,  but  they  must  not 

cease  in  the  Scorn  of  the  Outer  Dark. 
The  Wind  that  blows  between  the  worlds,  it 

nipped  him  to  the  bone, 
And  he  yearned  to  the  flare  of  Hell-gate  there 

as  the  light  of  his  own  hearth-stone. 
The  Devil  he  sat  behind  the  bars,  where  the 

desperate  legions  drew, 
But  he  caught    the    hasting    Tomlinson  and 

would  not  let  him  through. 
"Wot  ye  the  price  of  good  pit-coal  that  I  must 

pay?"  said  he, 
"That  ye  rank  yoursel'  so  fit  for  Hell  and  ask 

no  leave  of  me  ? 
"I  am  all    o'er-sib  to    Adam's    breed  that  ye 

should  give  me  scorn, 
"For  I  strove  with  God  for  your  First  Father 

the  day  that  he  was  born. 
"Sit  down,  sit  down  upon  the  slag,  and  answer 

loud  and  high 
"The  harm  that  ye  did  to  the  Sons  of  Men  or 

ever  you  came  to  die." 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  81 

And  Tomlinson  looked  up  and  up,  and  saw 

against  the  night 

The  belly  of  a  tortured  star  blood-red  in  Hell- 
Mouth  light; 
And  Tomlinson  looked  down  and  down,  and 

saw  beneath  his  feet 
The  frontlet  of  a  tortured  star  milk-white  in 

Hell-Mouth  heat. 
"Oh,  I  had  a  love  on   earth,"    said   he,  that 

kissed  me  to  my  fall, 
"And  if  ye  would  call  my  love  to  me  I  know 

she  would  answer  all." 
— "All  that  ye  did  in  love  forbid  it  shall  be 

written  fair, 
"But  now  ye  wait  at  Hell-Mouth  Gate  and  not 

in  Berkeley  Square: 
"Though  we  whistled  your  love  from  her  bed 

to-night,  I  trow  she  would  not  run, 
"For  the  sin  ye  do  by  two  and  two  ye  must 

pay  for  one  by  one!" 
The  Wind  that  blows  between  the  worlds,  it 

cut  him  like  a  knife, 
And  Tomlinson  took  up  the  tale  and  spoke  of 

his  sin  in  life: 
"Once  I  ha'  laughed  at  the  power  of  Love  and 

twice  at  the  grip  of  the  Grave, 
"And  thrice  I  ha'  patted  my  God  on  the  head 

that  men  might  call  me  brave." 


82  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  Devil  he  blew  on  a  brandered  soul  and  set 

it  aside  to  cool: 
"Do  ye  think  I  would  waste  my  good  pit-coal 

on  the  hide  of  a  brain-sick  fool? 
"I  see  no  worth  in  the  hobnailed  mirth  or  the 

jolt-head  jest  ye  did 
"That  I  should  waken  my  gentlemen  that  are 

sleeping  three  on  a  grid." 
Then  Tomlinson  looked  back  and  forth,  and 

there  was  little  grace, 
For  Hell-Gate  filled  the  houseless  Soul  with 

the  Fear  of  Naked  Space. 
"Nay,  this  I  ha'  heard,"  quo'  Tomlinson,  "and 

this  was  noised  abroad, 
"And  this  I  ha'  got  from  a  Belgian  book  on 

the  word  of  a  dead  French  lord." 
— "Ye  ha'  heard,  ye  ha'  read,  ye  ha'  got,  good 

lack!  And  the  tale  begins  afresh — 
"Have  ye  sinned  one  sin  for  the  pride  o'  the 

eye  or  the  sinful  lust  of  the  flesh?" 
Then  Tomlinson  he  gripped  the  bars  and  yam- 
mered "Let  me  in — 
"For  I  mind  that  I  borrowed  my  neighbor's 

wife  to  sin  the  deadly  sin." 
The  Devil  he  grinned  behind  the  bars,  and 

banked  the  fires  high: 
"Did  ye  read  of  that  sin  in  a  book?"  said  he; 

and  Tomlinson  said  "Ay!" 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  83 

The  Devil  he  blew  upon  his  nails,  and  the  lit- 
tle devils  ran; 
And  he  said,  "Go  husk  this  whimpering  thief 

that  comes  in  the  guise  of  a  man : 
"Winnow  him  out  'twixt  star  and  star,  and 

sieve  his  proper  worth: 
"There's  sore  decline  in  Adam's  line  if  this  be 

spawn  of  earth." 
Empusa's  crew,  so  naked-new  they  may  not 

face  the  fire, 
But  weep  that  they  bin  too  small  to  sin  to  the 

height  of  their  desire, 
Over  the  coal  they  chased  the  Soul,  and  racked 

it  all  abroad, 
As  children  rifle  a  caddis-case  or  the  raven's 

foolish  hoard. 
And  back  they  came  with  the  tattered  Thing, 

as  children  after  play, 
And  they  said:     "The  soul  that  he  got  from 

God  he  has  bartered  clean  away. 
"We  have  threshed  a  stook  of  print  and  book, 

and  winnowed  a  chattering  wind 
"And  many  a  soul  wherefrom  he  stole,  but  his 

we  cannot  find : 
"We  have  handled  him,  we  have  dandled  him, 

we  have  seared  him  to  the  bone, 
"And  sure  if  tooth  and  nail  show  truth  he  has 

no  soul  of  his  own." 


84  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  Devil  he  bowed  his  head  on  his  breast  and 

rumbled  deep  and  low: 
"I'm  all  o'er-sib  to  Adam's  breed  that  I  should 

bid  him  go. 
"Yet  close  we  lie,  and  deep   we  lie,   and  if  I 

gave  him  place, 
"My  gentlemen  that  are  so  proud  would  flout 

me  to  my  face ; 
"They'd  call  my  house  a  common  stews  and 

me  a  careless  host, 
"And — I  would  not  anger  my  gentlemen  for 

the  sake  of  a  shiftless  ghost." 
The  Devil  he  looked  at  the  mangled  Soul  that 

prayed  to  feel  the  flame, 
And  he  thought    of    Holy  Charity,    but  he 

thought  of  his  own  good  name: 
"Now  ye  could  haste  my  coal  to  waste,  and  sit 

ye  down  to  fry: 
"Did  ye  think  of  that  theft  for  yourself  ?"  said 

he;  and  Tomlinson  said  "Ay!" 
The  Devil  he  blew  an  outward  breath,  for  his 

heart  was  free  from  care: 
"Ye  have  scarce  the  soul  of  a  louse,"  he  said, 

"but  the  roots  of  sin  are  there, 
"And  for  that  sin  should  ye  come  in  were  I  the 

lord  alone. 
"But     sinful     pride    has     rule     inside — and 

mightier  than  my  own. 


AND  OTHER  VERfSES  85 

"Honor  and    Wit,  fore-damned    they    sit,  to 

each  his  priest  and  whore : 
"Nay,  scarce  I  dare  myself  go  there,  and  you 

they'd  torture  sore. 
"Ye  are  neither  spirit  nor  spirk,"  he  said;  "ye 

are  neither  book  nor  brute — 
"Go,  get  ye  back  to  the  flesh  again  for  the  sake 

of  Man's  repute. 
"I'm  all  o'er-sib  to  Adam's  breed  that  I  should 

mock  your  pain, 
"But  look  that  ye  win  to  worthier  sin  ere  ye 

come  back  aq-ain. 
"Get  hence,  the  hearse  is  at  your  door — the 

grim  black  stallions  wait — 
'They  bear  your  clay  to  place  to-day.     Speed, 

lest  ye  come  too  late! 
"Go  back  to  Earth   with    a  lip    unsealed — go 

back  with  an  open  eye, 
"And  carry  my  word  to  the  Sons  of  Men  or 

ever  ye  come  to  die : 
"That  the  sin  they  do  by  two  and  two  they 

must  pay  for  one  by  one — 
"And     .  .     .     the  God  that  you  took  from  a 

printed  book  be  with  you,  Tomlinson!" 


BARRACK-ROOM  BALLADS 


DANNY  DEEVER 

"WHAT  are  the    bugles    blowin'    for?"    said 

Files-on-Parade. 

"To  turn  you  out,  to  turn  you  out,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 
"What  makes  you  look  so  white,  so  white?" 

said  Files-on-Parade. 

"I'm  dreadin'  what  I've    got  to    watch,"  the 
Color-Sergeant  said. 

For  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you 

hear  the  Dead  March  play, 
The    regiment's     in    'ollow     square — 

they're  hangin'  him  to-day; 
They've  taken  of  his  buttons  off  an' 

cut  his  stripes  away, 
An'  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in 
the  mornin'. 

"What  makes  the  rear-rank  breathe  so  'ard  ?" 
said  Files-on-Parade. 

"It's  bitter  cold,  it's  bitter  cold,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 

"What    makes    that    front-rank    man    fall 
down?"  says  Files-on-Parade. 

"A  touch  o'  sun,  a  touch  o'   sun,"  the   Color- 
Sergeant  said. 

89 


$0  POEMS,  BALLADS 

They  are  hangin'   Danny   Deever,   they 

are  marchin'  of  'im  round, 
They  'ave    'alted    Danny   Deever   by  'is 

coffin  on  the  ground ; 
An'   'e'll  swing    in  'arf  a   minute  for   a 

sneakin'  shootin'  hound — 
O  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the 

mornin' ! 

"  'Is  cot   was   right-'and   cot  to   mine,"  said 

Files-on-Parade. 

"  'E's  sleepin'  out  an'  far  to-night,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 
"I've  drunk  'is  beer  a  score  o'  times,"  said 

Files-on-Parade. 

"  'E's  drinkin'  bitter  beer  alone,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 

They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you 

must  mark  'im  to  'is  place, 
For  'e  shot  a  comrade    sleepin' — you 

must  look  'im  in  the  face; 
Nine  'undred  of  'is  county  and  the  regi- 
ment's disgrace, 

iWhile  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in 
the  mornin'. 

"What's  that  so  black  agin  the  sun?"  said 
Files-on-Parade. 

"It's  Danny  fightin'  'ard  for  life,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  91 

'What's  that  that  whimpers  over'ead?"  said 

Files-on-Parade. 

'It's  Danny's    soul  that's   passin'   now,"   the 
Color-Sergeant  said. 

For  they're  done  with  Danny  Deever, 

you  can  'ear  the  quickstep  play, 
The  regiment's  in  column,  an'  they're 

marchin'  us  away; 
Ho!  the  young  recruits  are  shakin',  an' 

they'll  want  their  beer  to-day, 
After   hangin'  Danny    Deever    in  the 
mornin'. 


TOMMY 

I  WENT  into  a  public-'ouse  to  get  a  pint  o'  beer, 

The  publican  'e  up  an'  sez,  "We  serve  no  red- 
coats here." 

The  girls  be'ind  the  bar  they  laughed  an'  gig- 
gled fit  to  die, 

I  outs  into  the  street  again  an'  to  myself  sez  I : 

O  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an' 

"Tommy,  go  away"; 
But    it's   "Thank   you,    Mister   Atkins," 

when  the  band  begins  to  play, 
The  band  begins  to  play,  my  boys,  the 

band  begins  to  play, 
O  it's  "Thank  you,  Mister  Atkins,"  when 

the  band  begins  to  play. 

I  went  into  a  theatre  as  sober  as  could  be, 
They  gave  a  drunk  civilian  room,  but  'adn't 

none  for  me ; 
They  sent  me   to  the   gallery   or   round   the 

music-'alls, 
But  when  it  comes  to  fightin',  Lord!    they'll 

shove  me  in  the  stalls! 
92 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  93 

For  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an' 

"Tommy,  wait  outside"; 
But  it's  "Special  train  for  Atkins"  when 

the  trooper's  on  the  tide, 
The  troopship's  on  the  tide,  my  boys,  the 

troopship's  on  the  tide, 
O  it's  "Special  train  for  Atkins"  when  the 

trooper's  on  the  tide. 

Yes,  makin'  mock  o'  uniforms  that  guard  you 

while  you  sleep 
Is  cheaper  than  them     uniforms,  an'    they're 

starvation  cheap ; 
An'   hustlin'   drunken    soldiers  when    they're 

goin'  large  a  bit 
Is  five  times  better  business  than  paradin'  in 

full  kit. 


Then  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that, 

an'  "Tommy,  'ow's  yer  soul?" 
But  it's  "Thin  red  line  of  'eroes"  when 

the  drums  begin  to  roll, 
The  drums  begin    to  roll,    my  boys,  the 

drums  begin  to  roll, 
O  it's  "Thin  red  line  of  'eroes"  when  the 

drums  begin  to  roll. 


94  POEMS,  BALLADS 

We  aren't  no  thin  red  'eroes,  nor  we  aren't  no 

blackguards  too, 
But  single  men  in  barricks,  most  remarkable 

like  you; 
An'  if  sometimes  our   conduck  isn't   all  your 

fancy  paints : 
Why,  single  men  in  barricks  don't  grow  into 

plaster  saints; 


While  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that, 

an'  "Tommy,  fall  be'ind," 
But  it's  "Please  to  walk  in  front,  sir," 

when  there's  trouble  in  the  wind, 
There's   trouble    in  the  wind,    my  boys, 

there's  trouble  in  the  wind, 
O  it's  "Please  to  walk  in  front,  sir,"  when 

there's  trouble  in  the  wind. 


You  talk  o'  better  food  for  us,  an*  schools,  an* 

fires,  an'  all: 
We'll  wait  for  extry  rations   if  you  treat  us 

rational. 
Don't  mess  about  the   cook-room   slops,    but 

prove  it  to  our  face 
The  Widow's  Uniform  is  not  the  soldier-man's 

disgrace. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  95 

For  it's   Tommy  this,   an'   Tommy  that,  an* 

"Chuck  him  out,  the  brute!" 
But  it's  "Saviour  of  'is  country,"  when  the 

guns  begin  to  shoot; 
Yes,  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an' 

anything  you  please; 
But  Tommy  ain't  a    bloomin'    fool — you  bet 

that  Tommy  sees! 


"FUZZY-WUZZY" 
(SOUDAN  EXPEDITIONARY  FORCE) 

WE'VE  fought  with  many  men  acrost  the  seas, 
An'  some  of  'em  was  brave  an'  some  was 

not. 

The  Paythan  an'  the  Zulu  an'  Burmese; 
But  the  Fuzzy  was  the  finest  o'  the  lot. 
We  never  got  a  ha'porth's  change  of  'im: 
'E    squatted     in  the    scrub  an'  'ocked  our 

'orses, 
'E  cut  our  sentries  up  at  Suakim 

An'  'e   played  the   cat  an'    banjo   with  our 
forces. 

So  'ere's  to  you.  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  at  your 

'ome  in  the  Soudan; 
You're  a  pore  benighted  'eathen  but  a 

first-class  fightin'  man; 
We  gives  you  your  certificate,  an'  if 

you  want  it  signed 

We'll  come  an'  'ave  a  romp  with  you 
whenever  you're  inclined. 

We  took  our  chanst  among  the  Kyber  'ills, 
The  Boers  knocked  us  silly  at  a  mile, 

The  Burman  give  us  Irriwaddy  chills, 
An'  a  Zulu  impi  dished  us  up  in  style : 
96 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  97 

But  all  we  ever  got  from  such  as  they 

Was  pop  to  what  the  Fuzzy  made  us  swal- 

ler; 

We  'eld  our  bloomin'  own,  the  papers  say, 
But  man   for  man  the   Fuzzy  knocked  us 
'oiler. 

Then  'ere's  to  you,    Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  an' 

the  missis  and  the  kid  ; 
Our  orders    was  to  break  you,  an'  of 

course  we  went  an'  did. 
We  sloshed  you  with  Martinis,  an*  it 

wasn't  'ardly  fair; 

But  for  all  the  odds  agin'  you,  Fuzzy- 
Wuz  you  broke  the  square. 

'E  'asn't  got  no  papers  of  'is  own, 

'E  'asn't  got  no  medals  nor  rewards, 
So  we  must  certify  the  skill  'e's  shown 

In  usin'  of  'is  long  two-'anded  swords : 
When  'e's  'oppin*  in  an'  out  among  the  bush 
With    'is  coffin-'eaded    shield  an'    shovel- 
spear, 

An  'appy  day  with  Fuzzy  on  the  rush 
Will  last  an  'ealthy  Tommy  for  a  year. 

So  ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  an'  your 

friends  which  are  no  more, 
If  we  'adn't  lost  some  messmates  we 
would  'elp  you  to  deplore; 


98  POEMS,  BALLADS 

But  give  an'  take's  the  gospel,  an'  we'll 

call  the  bargain  fair, 
For  if  you   'ave   lost   more   than   us, 

you  crumpled  up  the  square ! 

'E  rushes  at  the  smoke  when  we  let  drive, 
An',  before  we  know,  'e's  'ackin'  at  our  'ead ; 
'E's  all  'ot  sand  an'  ginger  when  alive, 
An'  'e's  generally  shammin'  when  'e's  dead. 
'E's  a  daisy,  'e's  a  ducky,  'e's  a  lamb ! 

'E's  a  injia-rubber  idiot  on  the  spree, 
'E's  the  on'y  thing  that  doesn't  give  a  damn 
For  a  Regiment  o'  British  Infantree! 

So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  at  your 

'ome  in  the  Soudan; 
You're  a  pore  benighted  'eathen,  but  a 

first-class  fightin'  man; 
An  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  with 

your  'ayrick  'ead  of  'air — 
You  big  black    boundin'   beggar — for 
you  broke  a  British  square ! 


SOLDIER,  SOLDIER 

"SOLDIER,  soldier,  come  from  the  wars, 
Why  don't  you  march  with  my  true  love?" 
"We're  fresh  from  off  the  ship  an*  'e's  maybe 

give  the  slip, 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

New  love !  True  love ! 
Best  go  look  for  a  new  love, 
The  dead  they  cannot  rise,  an'  you'd  bet- 
ter dry  your  eyes, 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love. 

"Soldier,  soldier,  come  from  the  wars, 
What  did  you  see  o'  my  true  love?" 
"I  seed  'im  serve  the  Queen  in  a  suit  o'  rifle- 
green, 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

"Soldier,  soldier,  come  from  the  wars, 

Did  ye  see  no  more  o'  my  true  love  ?" 

"I  seed  'im  runnin'  by  when  the  shots  began 

to  fly- 
But  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 
99. 


ioo  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"Soldier,  soldier,  come  from  the  wars, 

Did  aught  take  'arm  to  my  true  love?" 

"I  couldn't  see  the  fight,  for  the  smoke  it  lay 

so  white — 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

"Soldier,  soldier,  come  from  the  wars, 

I'll  up  an'  tend  to  my  true  love!" 

"  'E's  lying  on  the  dead  with  a  bullet  through 

'is  'ead, 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

"Soldier,  soldier,  come  from  the  wars, 

I'll  down  an'  die  with  my  true  love!" 

"The  pit  we  dug'll  'ide  'im  an'  the  twenty  men 

beside  'im — 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

"Soldier,  soldier,  come  from  the  wars, 
Do  you  bring  no  sign  from  my  true  love  ?" 
"I  bring  a  lock  of    'air  that    'e  allus    used  to 

wear, 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

"Soldier,  soldier,  come  from  the  wars, 

O  then  I  know  it's  true  I've  lost  my  true  love!" 

"An*  I  tell  you  the  truth  again — when  you've 

lost  the  feel  o'  pain 
You'd  best  take  me  for  your  true  love." 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  101 

True  love !    New  love ! 
Best  take  'im  for  a  new  love. 
The  dead  they  cannot  rise,  an'  you'd  bet- 
ter dry  your  eyes, 
An'  you'd  best  take  'im  for  your  true  love. 


SCREW-GUNS 

SMOKIN'  my  pipe  on  the  mountings,  sniffin' 

the  mornin'  cool, 
I  walks  in  my  old  brown  gaiters  along  o'  my 

old  brown  mule, 
With  seventy  gunners  be'ind  me,  an'  never  a 

beggar  forgets 
It's  only  the  pick  of  the  Army  that  handles  the 

dear  little  pets — 'Tss!  'Tss! 

For  you  all  love   the   screw-guns,  the 

screw-guns  they  all  love  you! 
So  when    we  call    round   with   a  few 

guns,  o'  course  you  will  know  what 

to  do — hoo!  hoo! 
Jest  send  in  your  Chief  an'  surrender — 

it's  worse  if  you  fights  or  you  runs : 
You  can  go  where  you  please,  you  can 

skid  up  the  trees,  but  you  don't  get 

away  from  the  guns. 

They  sends  us  along  where  the  roads  are,  but 
mostly  we  goes  where  they  ain't: 

We'd  climb  up  the   side  of  a    sign-board  an' 
trust  to  the  stick  o'  the  paint : 
1 02 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  103 

We've  chivied  the  Naga  an'    Looshai,  we've 

give  the  Afreedeeman  fits, 
For  we  fancies  ourselves  at  two  thousand,  we 

guns  that  are  built    in  two    bits — 'Tss! 

Tss! 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns,  etc. 

If  a  man  doesn't  work,  why,  we  drills  'im,  an' 

teaches  'im  'ow  to  behave; 
If  a  beggar  can't  march,  why,  we  kills  'im  an' 

rattles  'im  into  'is  grave. 
You've  got    to  stand  up   to  our   business  an' 

spring  without  snatchin'  or  fuss. 
D'you  say  that  you  sweat  with  the  field-guns? 

By  God.  you  must  lather  with  us — 'Tss! 
'Tss! 
For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns,  etc. 

The  eagles  is  screamin'  around  us,  the  river's 

a-moanin'  below, 
We're  clear  o'  the  pine  an'  the  oak-scrub,  we're 

out  on  the  rocks  an'  the  snow, 
An'  the  wind  is  as  thin  as  a  whip-lash  what 

carries  away  to  the  plains 
The  rattle  an'  stamp    o'  the   lead-mules — the 

jinglety-jink  o'  the  chains — 'Tss!  'Tss! 
For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns,  etc. 


104  POEMS,  BALLADS 

There's  a  wheel  on  the  Horns  o'  the  Mornin', 
an'  a  wheel  on  the  edge  o'  the  Pit, 

An'  a  drop  into  nothin'  beneath  you  as  straight 
as  a  beggar  can  spit: 

With  the  sweat  runnin'     out   o'   your    shirt- 
sleeves, 

An'  the  sun  off  the  snow  in  your  face, 

An'  'arf  o'  the  men  on  the  drag-ropes  to  hold 
the  old  gun  in  'er  place — 'Tss !  'Tss ! 
For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns,  etc. 


Smokin*  my  pipe  on  the  mountings,  sniffin'  the 

mornin'  cool, 
I  climbs  in  my  old  brown  gaiters  along  o'  my 

old  brown  mule. 
The  monkey  can  say  what  our  road  was — the 

wild-goat  'e  knows  where  we  passed. 
Stand  easy,  you  long-eared  old  darlin's!  Out 

drag-ropes!  With  shrapnel!  Hold  fast — • 

'Tss!  'Tss! 


For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — the 
screw-guns  they  all  love  you! 

So  when  we  take  tea  with  a  few  guns, 
o'  course  you  will  know  what  to  do — 
hoo!  hoo! 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  105 

Just  send  in  your  Chief  and  surrender 

— it's    worse   if  you    fights   or  you 

runs: 
You  may  hide  in  the  caves,  they'll  be 

only  your  graves,  but  you  can't  get 

away  from  the  guns! 


GUNGA  DIN 

You  may  talk  o'  gin  and  beer 

When  you're  quartered  safe  out  'ere, 

An'  you're  sent  to  penny-fights  an'   Aldershot 

it; 

But  when  it  comes  to  slaughter 
You  will  do  your  work  on  water, 
An'  you'll  lick  the  bloomin'  boots  of  'im  that's 

got  it, 

Now  in  Injia's  sunny  clime, 
Where  I  used  to  spend  my  time 
A-servin'  of  'Er  Majesty  the  Queen, 
Of  all  them  black  faced  crew 
The  finest  man  I  knew 
Was  our  regimental  bhisti,  Gunga  Din. 

He  was  "Din !  Din !  Din ! 

You  limping  lump  o'  brick-dust,  Gunga 
Din! 

Hi !  slippery  hitherao ! 

Water!  get  it!  Panee  lao!1 

You  squidgy-nosed  old  idol,    Gunga 
Din." 

The  uniform  'e  wore 
Was  nothin'  much  before, 

TBrine  water  swiftly. 
1 06 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  107 

An*  rather  less  than  'arf  o'  that  be'ind, 

For  a  piece  o'  twisty  rag 

An'  a  goatskin  water-bag 

Was  all  the  field-equipment  'e  could  find. 

When  the  sweatin'  troop-train  lay 

In  a  sidin'  through  the  day, 

Where  the  'eat  would  make  your  bloomin'  eye^ 

brows  crawl, 

We  shouted,  "Harry  By!"1 
Till  our  throats  were  bricky-dry, 
Then  we  wopped  'im  cause  'e  couldn't  serve  us 
all. 

It  was  "Din!  Din!  Din! 

You   'eathen,   where  the  mischief  'ave 

you  been? 

You  put  some  juldee*  in  it 
Or  I'll  marrow  you  this  minute* 
If  you  don't  fill  up  my  helmet,  Gunga 
Din!" 

'E  would  dot  an'  carry  one 
Till  the  longest  day  was  done ; 
An  'e  didn't  seem  to  know  the  use  o'  fear. 
If  we  charged  or  broke  or  cut, 
You  could  bet  your  bloomin'  nut, 
'E'd  be  waitin'  fifty  paces  right  flank  rear. 
With  'is  mussick4  on  'is  back, 

i  Mr.  Atkins'  equivalent  for  "O  brother.' '  *Ba  quick. 

•Hit  you.  «  Water  skla 


108  POEMS,  BALLADS 

'E  would  skip  with  our  attack, 
An'  watch  us  till  the  bugles  made  "Retire," 
An'  for  all  'is  dirty  'ide 
}E  was  white,  clear  white,  inside 
When  'e  went  to  tend  the  vvounded  under  fire ! 

It  was  "Din!  Din!  Din!" 
With  the  bullets  kickin'  dust-spots  on  the 

green. 

When  the  cartridges  ran  out, 
You  could  hear  the  front-files  shout, 
"Hi!  ammunition-mules  an'  Gunga  Din!" 

I  shan't  forgit  the  night 

When  I  dropped  be'ind  the  fight 

With  a  bullet  where  my  belt-plate  should  'a' 

been. 

I  was  chokin'  mad  with  thirst, 
An'  the  man  that  spied  me  first 

Was  our  good    old  grinnin',    gruntin'  Gunga 

Din. 

'E  lifted  up  my  'ead, 
An'  he  plugged  me  where  I  bled, 

An'  'e  guv  me  'arf-a-pint  o'  water-green : 
It  was  crawlin'  and  it  stunk, 
But  of  all  the  drinks  I've  drunk, 

I'm  grate  fullest  to  one  from  Gunga  Din. 
It  was  "Din!  Din!  Din!" 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  109 

'Ere's   a  beggar   with   a  bullet    through  'is 
spleen ; 

'E's  chawin'  up  the  ground, 

An'  'e's  kickin'  all  around : 
For  Gawd's  sake  git  the  water,  Gunga  Din! 

'E  carried  me  away 
To  where  a  dooli  lay, 

An*  a  bullet  come  an'  drilled  the  beggar  clean. 
'E  put  me  safe  inside, 
An'  just  before  'e  died : 

"I  hope  you  liked  your  drink,"  sez  Gunga  Din. 
So  I'll  meet  'im  later  on 
At  the  place  where  'e  is  gone — 
Where  it's  always  double  drill  and  no  canteen ; 
'E'll  be  squattin'  on  the  coals, 
Givin'  drink  to  poor  damned  souls, 
An*  I'll  get  a  swig  in  hell  from  Gunga  Din! 

Yes,  Din!  Din!  Din! 
You  Lazarushian-leather  Gunga-Din! 

Though  I've  belted  you  and    flayed 
you, 

By  the  living  Gawd  that  made  you, 
You're  a  better  man  than  I  am,  Gunga  Din ! 


OONTS 

(NORTHERN  INDIA  TRANSPORT  TRAIN) 

WOT  makes  the  soldier's    'eart  to   penk,  wot 

makes  him  to  perspire? 
It  isn't  standin'  up  to  charge  nor  lyin'  down  to 

fire; 

But  it's  everlastin'  waitin'  on  a  everlastin'  road 
For  the  commissariat    camel   an'  'is   commis- 
sariat load. 

O  the  oont,1  O  the  oont,  O  the  commis- 
sariat oont! 
With  'is    silly  neck   a-bobbin'  like  a 

basket  full  o'  snakes; 
We  packs  'im    like    an  idol,     an'  you 

ought  to  'ear  'im  grunt, 
An*  when  we  gets  'im  loaded  up  'is 
blessed  girth-rope  breaks. 

Wot  makes  the  rear-guard  swear  so  'ard  when 

night  is  drorin'  in, 
An'  every  native  follower  is  shiverin'  for  'is 

skin? 

*Camel— oo  Is  pronounced  like  u  In  "bull,"  but  by  Mr.  Atkins  to  rhyme 
Irtth  "Front." 

no 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  in 

It  ain't  the  chanst  o'  being  rushed  by  Paythans 

from  the  'ills, 

It's  the    commissariat     camel    puttin'     on  'is 
bloomin'  frills! 

O  the  oont,   O  the  oont,   O  the  hairy, 

scary  oont! 
A-trippin'     over     tent-ropes     when 

we've  got  the  night  alarm! 
We  socks  'im  with  a  stretcher-pole,  an' 

'eads  'im  off  in  front, 
An'  when  we've  saved  'is    bloomin' 
life  'e  chaws  our  bloomin'  arm. 

The  'orse  'e  knows  above  a  bit,  the  bullock's 

but  a  fool, 
The  elephant's  a  gentleman,  the  battery-mule's 

a  mule; 
But  the  commissariat  cam-u-el,  when  all  is  said 

an'  done, 

'E's  a  devil  an'  a  ostrich  an'  a  orphan-child  in 
one. 

O  the  oont,  O  the  oont,  O  the  Gawd- 
forsaken  oont! 
The    lumpy-'umpy    'ummin'-bird    a- 

singin'  where  'e  lies, 
'E's  blocked  the  whole  division  from 

the  rear-guard  to  the  front, 
An'  when  we  get  him  up  again — the 
beggar  goes  an'  dies! 


112  POEMS,  BALLADS 

'E'll  gall  an'    chafe     an'  lame    an'    fight— 'e 

smells  most  awful  vile; 
'E'll  lose  'isself  forever  if  you  let  'im  stray  a 

mile; 
E's  game  to  graze  the  'ole  day  long  an'  'owl 

the  'ole  night  through, 

An'  when  'e  comes  to  greasy  ground  'e  splits 
'issel  in  two. 

O  the  oont,  O  the  oont,  O  the  floppin', 

droppin'  oont! 
When  'is  long  legs  give  from  under  an' 

'is  meltin'  eye  is  dim, 
The  tribes  is  up  be'ind  us,  and  the  tribes 

is  out  in  front — 

It  ain't  no  jam  for  Tommy,  but  it's 
kites  an'  crows  for  'im. 


So  when  the  cruel  march  is  done,  an'  when  the 
roads  is  blind, 

An'  when  we  sees  the  camp  in  front  an'  'ears 
the  shots  be'ind, 

Ho  then  we  strips  'is  saddle  off,  and  all  'is 
woes  is  past: 

'E  thinks  on  us  that  used  'im  so,  and  gets  re- 
venge at  last. 

O  the  oont,  O  the  oont,  O  the  floatin', 
bloatin'  oont! 


AND  OTHER   VERSES  113 

The     late    lamented     camel    in     the 

water-cut  'e  lies; 
We    keeps     a  mile  behind  'im  an'  we 

keeps  a  mile  in  front, 
But  'e  gets    into  the    drinkin'-casks, 
and  then  o'  course  we  dies. 


LOOT. 

IF  you've  ever  stole  a  pheasant-egg  be'ind  the 

keeper's  back, 
If  you've  ever  snigged  the  washin'  from  the 

line, 
If  you've  ever    crammed  a    gander    in  your 

bloomin'  'aversack, 

You  will  understand  this  little  song  o'  mine. 
But  the  service  rules  are  'ard,  and  from  such 

we  are  debarred, 

For  the  same  with  English  morals  does  not 
suit. 

(Cornet:  Toot!  toot!) 
W'y,  they  call  a  man  a  robber  if  'e  stuffs  'is 

marchin'  clobber 
With  the— 

( Chorus. )    Loo !  loo !  Lulu !  lulu !  Loo !  loo ! 
Loot!  loot!  loot! 
Ow  the  loot ! 
Bloomin'  loot! 
That's  the  thing  to  make  the  boys  git  up 

an'  shoot! 

It's  the  same  with  dogs  an'  men, 
If  you'd  make  'em  come  again 
114 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  115 

Clap  'em  forward  with  a  Loo !  loo !  Lulu ! 

Loot! 

(ff)  Whoopee!    Tear  'im,  puppy!    Loo!    loo! 
Lulu !  Loot !  loot !  loot ! 

If  you've  knocked  a  nigger  edgeways  when  'e's 

thrustin'  for  your  life, 
You  must  leave  'im   very  careful   where  'e 

fell; 
An'  may  thank  your  stars  an'  gaiters   if  you 

didn't  feel  'is  knife 

That  you  ain't  told  off  to  bury  'im  as  well. 
Then  the  sweatin'  Tommies  wonder  as  they 

spade  the  beggars  under 
Why  lootin'  should  be  entered  as  a  crime; 
So  if  ray  song  you'll  'ear,  I  will  learn  you  plain 

an'  clear 

'Ow  to  pay  yourself  for  fightin'  overtime 
(Chorus.}    With  the  loot,  etc. 

Now  remember  when  you're  'acking  round  a 

gilded  Burma  god 

That  'is  eyes  is  very  often  precious  stones ; 
An'  if  you  treat  a  nigger  to  a  dose  o'  cleanin'- 

rod 

'E's  like  to  show  you  everything  'e  owns. 
When  'e  won't  prodooce  no  more,  pour  some 

water  on  the  floor 

Where  you  'ear  it  answer  'ollow  to  the  boot 
(Cornet:  Toot!  toot!) — 


Il6  POEMS,  BALLADS 

When  the  ground  begins  to  sink,  shove  your 

baynick  down  the  chink, 
An'  you're  sure  to  touch  the — 
(  Chorus. )    Loo !  loo !    Lulu !  Loot !  loot !  loot ! 
Ow  the  loot!  etc. 

When  from  'ouse  to  'ouse  you're  'unting,  you 

must  always  work  in  pairs — 
It  'alves  the  gain,  but  safer  you  will  find — 
For  a  single  man  gets  bottled  on  them  twisty- 

wisty  stairs, 
An'   a   woman  comes  and    clobs  'im  from 

be'ind. 
When  you've    turned  'em    inside    out,    an'  it 

seems  beyond  a  doubt 
As  if  there  weren't  enough  to  dust  a  flute 

(Cornet:    Toot!  toot!)— 
Before  you  sling  your  'ook,  at  the  'ouse-tops 

take  a  look, 

For  it's  underneath  the  tiles  they  'ide  the 
loot. 
(Chorus.}     Ow  the  loot,  etc. 

You  can  mostly  square  a  Sergint  an'  a  Quar- 
ter-master too, 

If  you  only  take  the  proper  way  to  go; 
7  could  never  keep  my  pickin's,  but  I've  learned 

you  all  I  knew — 
An'  don't  you  never  say  I  told  you  so. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  117 

An'  now  I'll  bid    good-bye,    for    I'm    gettin* 

rather  dry, 
An'  I  see  another  tunin'  up  to  toot  (Cornet: 

Toot!  toot!)- 
So  'ere's  good-luck   to  those   that   wears  the 

Widow's  clo'es, 

An'  the  Devil  send  'em  all  they  want  o'  loot ! 
(Chorus.)     Yes,  the  loot, 

Bloomin'  loot. 

In  the  tunic  an'  the  mess-tin  an'  the  boot ! 
It's  the  same  with  dogs  an'  men, 
If  you'd  make  'em  come  again 
(///)    Whoop  'em  forward  with  a  Loo!  loo! 

Lulu!  Loot!  loot!  loot! 
Heeya!    Sick  'im,  puppy!   'Loo!  loo!    Lulu! 
Loot!  loot!  loot! 


"SNARLEYOW" 

THIS  'appened  in  a  battle  to  a  batt'ry  of  the 
corps 

Which  is  first  among  the  women  an'  amazin' 
first  in  war ; 

An'  what  the  bloomin'  battle  was  I  don't  re- 
member now, 

But  Two's  off-lead  'e  answered  to  the  name  o' 
Snarleyow. 

Down  in  the  Infantry,  nobody  cares; 
Down  in  the  Cavalry,  Colonel  e'  swears ; 
But  down  in  the  lead  with  the  wheel  at 

the  flog 
Turns  the  bold   Bombardier  to  a  little 

whipped  dog! 

They  was  movin'  into  action,  they  was  needed 

very  sore, 
To  learn  a  little  schoolin'    to  a  native  army 

corps, 
They  'ad  nipped  against  an  uphill,  they  was 

tuckin'  down  the  brow, 
When  a  tricky,  trundlin'  round-shot  gives  the 

knock  to  Snarleyow. 
118 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  119 

They  cut  'im  loose  an'  left  'im — 'e  was  almost 

tore  in  two—- 
But he  tried  to  follow  after  as  a  well-trained 

'orse  should  do, 
'E  went  an'  fouled  the  limber,  an'  the  Driver's 

Brother  squeals: 

Tull  up,  pull  up  for  Snarleyow — 'is  'ead's  be- 
tween 'is  'eels!" 

The  Driver  'umped  'is  shoulder,  for  the  wheels 

was  goin'  round, 
An'  there  aren't  no  "Stop,  conductor !"  when  a 

batt'ry's  changin'  ground; 
Sez  'e :  "I  broke  the  beggar  in,  an'  very  sad  I 

feels, 
But  I  couldn't  pull  up,  not  for  you — your  'ead 

between  your  'eels!" 

'E  'adn't  'ardly  spoke  the  word,  before  a  drop- 
pin'  shell 

A  little  right  the  batt'ry  an'  between  the  sec- 
tions fell; 

An'  when  the  smoke  'ad  cleared  away,  before 
the  limber  wheels, 

There  lay  the  Driver's  Brother  with  'is  'ead  be- 
tween 'is  'eels. 

Then  sez  the  Driver's  Brother,  an'  'is  words 
was  very  plain, 


120  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"For  Gawd's  own  sake  get  over  me,  an'  put 

me  out  o'  pain." 
They  saw  'is  wounds  was    mortial,    an'  they 

judged  that  it  was  best. 
So  they   took    an'  drove   the  limber   straight 

across  'is  back  an'  chest. 

The  Driver  'e  give  nothin'  'cept  a  little  cough- 
in'  grunt, 

But  'e  swung  'is  'orses  'andsome  when  it  came 
to  "Action  front!" 

An'  if  one  wheel  was  juicy,  you  may  lay  your 
Monday  head 

'Twas  jucier  for  the  niggers  when  the  case  be- 
gun to  spread. 

The  moril  of  this  story,  it  is  plainly  to  be  seen ; 
You  'avn't  got  no  families  when  servin'  of  the 

Queen — 
You  'avn't  got  no  brothers,   fathers,  sisters, 

wives,  or  sons — 
If  you  want  to  win  your  battles  take  an'  work 

your  bloomin'  guns! 

Down  in  the  Infantry,  nobody  cares ; 
Down  in  the  Cavalry,  Colonel  'e  swears ; 
But  down  in  the  lead  with  the  wheel  at 

the  flog 
Turns  the    bold    Bombardier    to    a  little 

whipped  dog! 


THE  WIDOW  AT  WINDSOR 

'AvE  you  'card  'o  the  Widow  at  Windsor 

With  a  hairy  gold  crown  on  'er  'ead  ? 
She  'as  ships  on  the  foam — she  'as  millions  at 

'ome, 
An'  she  pays  us  poor  beggars  in  red. 

(Ow,  poor  beggars  in  red!) 
There's  'er  nick  on  the  cavalry  'orses, 

There's  'er  mark  on  the  medical  stores — 
An'  'er  troopers  you'll  find  with  a  fair  wind 

be'ind 
That  takes  us  to  various  wars. 

(Poor  beggars! — barbarious  wars!) 

Then  'ere's  to  the  Widow  at  Windsor, 
An'  'ere's  to  the  stores  an'  the  guns, 
The  men  an'  the  'orses  what  make  up  the 

forces 
O'  Missis  Victorier's  sons. 

(Poor  beggars!  Victorier's  sons!) 

Walk  wide  o'  the  Widow  at  Windsor, 

For  'alf  o'  Creation  she  owns: 
We  'ave  bought  'er  the  same  with  the  sword 
an'  the  flame, 

An'  we've  salted  it  down  with  our  bones. 

121 


122  POEMS,  BALLADS 

(Poor    beggars! — it's   blue   with   our 

bones!) 

Hands  off  o'  the  sons  of  the  Widow, 
Hands  off  o'  the  goods  in  'er  shop, 
For  the  Kings  must  come  down  an'  the  Em- 
perors frown 

When  the  Widow  at  Windsor  says  "Stop !" 
(Poor     beggars! — we're     sent     to     say 
"Stop!") 

Then  'ere's  to  the  Lodge  o'  the  Widow, 

From  the  Pole  to  the  Tropics  it  runs — 

To  the  Lodge  that  we  tile  with  the  rank 

an'  the  file, 

An'  open  in  form  with  the  guns. 
(Poor   beggars! — it's    always    they 
guns!) 

We  'ave  'card  o'  the  Widow  at  Windsor, 

It's  safest  to  leave  'er  alone  : 
For  'er  sentries  we  stand  by  the  sea  an'  the 

land 
Wherever  the  bugles  are  blown. 

(Poor    beggars! — an'    don't    we    get 

blown!) 

Take  o'ld  o'  the  Wings  o'  the  Mornin', 
An'  flop  round  the  earth  till  you're  dead; 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  123 

But  you  won't  get  away  from  the  tune  that 

they  play 
To  the  bloomin'  old  Rag-  over'ead. 

(Poor  beggars! — it's  'ot  over'ead!) 

Then  'ere's  to  the  sons  o'  the  Widow 

Wherever,  'owever  they  roam. 
'Ere's  all  they  desire,  an'  if  they  require 
A  speedy  return  to  their  'ome. 

(Poor    beggars! — they'll    never    see 
'ome!) 


BELTS 

THERE  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street  that's  near 

to  Dublin  Quay, 
Between  an  Irish  regiment  an'  English  cav- 

alree ; 

It  started  at  Revelly  an'  it  lasted  on  till  dark : 
The  first  man  dropped  at  Harrison's,   the  last 

fornist  the  Park. 

For  it  was  "Belts,  belts,  belts,  an'  that's 

one  for  you!" 
An'  it  was  "Belts,  belts,  belts,  an'  that's 

done  for  you !" 
O  buckle  an'  tongue 
Was  the  song  that  we  sung 
From  Harrison's  down  to  the  Park! 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — the  regi- 
ments was  out, 

They  called  us  "Delhi    Rebels,"    an'  we   an- 
swered "Threes  about!" 

That  drew  them  like  a  hornet's  nest — we  met 
them  good  an'  large, 

The  English  at  the  double  an'  the  Irish  at  the 
charge. 

Then  it  was:  Belts — * 
124 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  125 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — an'  I  was  in 

it  too ; 
We  passed  the  time  o'  day,  an'  then  the  belts 

went  whirraru! 
I  misremember  what  occurred,  but  subsequint 

the  storm 
A  Freeman's  Journal  Supplemint  was  all  my 

uniform. 

O  it  was :  Belts — 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — they  sent 
the  Polis  there, 

The  English    were  too    drunk    to  know,    the 
Irish  didn't  care; 

But  when  they  grew  impertinint  we  simultane- 
ous rose, 

Till  half  o'  them  was  Liffey  mud  an'  half  was 
tatthered  clo'es. 

For  it  was:  Belts — 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — it  might  ha' 
raged  till  now, 

But  some  one  drew  his  side-arm  clear,  an'  no- 
body knew  how; 

'Twas  Hogan  took  the  point  an'  dropped;  we 
saw  the  red  blood  run: 

An'  so  we  all  was  murderers  that  started  out 
in  fun. 

While  it  was :  Belts — 


126  POEMS,  BALLADS 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — but  that  put 

down  the  shine, 
Wid  each  man  whisperin'  to  his  next :  "  'Twas 

never  work  o'  mine!" 
We  went  away  like  beaten  dogs,  an'  down  the 

street  we  bore  him, 
The  poor  dumb  corpse  that  couldn't  tell  the 

bhoys  were  sorry  for  him. 
When  it  was:  Belts — 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — it  isn't  over 
yet 

For  half  of  us  are  under  guard  wid  punish- 
ments to  get ; 

'Tis  all  a  merricle  to  me  as  in  the  Clink  I  lie : 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — begob,  I 
wonder  why! 
But  it  was  "Belts,  belts,  belts,  an'  that's 

one  for  you !" 
An'  it  was  "Belts,  belts,  belts,  an'  that's 

done  for  you!" 
O  buckle  and  tongue 
Was  the  song  that  we  sung 
From  Harrison's  down  to  the  Park! 


THE  YOUNG  BRITISH  SOLDIER 

WHEN  the  'arf-made  recruity  goes  out  to  the 

East 

'E  acts  like  a  babe  an'  'e  drinks  like  a  beast, 
An'  'e  wonders  because  'e  is  frequent  deceased 
Ere  'e's  fit  to  serve  as  a  soldier, 
Serve,  serve,  serve  as  a  soldier, 
Serve,  serve,  serve  as  a  soldier, 
Serve,  serve,  serve  as  a  soldier, 
So-oldier  of  the  Queen ! 

Now  all  you  recruities  what's  drafted  to-day, 
You  shut  up  your  rag-box  an'  'ark  to  my  lay, 
An'  I'll  sing  you  a  soldier  as  far  as  I  may : 
A  soldier  what's  fit  for  a  soldier. 
Fit,  fit,  fit  for  a  soldier. 

First  mind  you  steer  clear  o'  the  grog-sellers' 

huts, 
For  they  sell  you  Fixed  Bay'nets  that  rots  out 

your  guts' — 

Ay,  drink  that  'ud  eat  the  live  steel  from  your 
butts — 

An'  it's  bad  for  the  young  British  soldier. 
Bad,  bad,  bad  for  the  soldier. 
127 


128  POEMS,  BALLADS 

When  the  cholera  comes — as  it  will  past  a 

doubt — 

Keep  out  of  the  wet  and  don't  go  on  the  shout, 
For  the  sickness  gets  in  as  the  liquor  dies  out, 

An'  it  crumples  the  young  British  soldier. 
Crum-,  crum-,  crumples  the  soldier.  .  . 

But  the  worst  o'  your  foes  is  the  sun  over'ead : 
You  must  wear  your  'elmet  for  all  that  is  said : 
If  'e  finds  you  uncovered  Vll  knock  you  down 

dead 

An5  you'll  die  like  a  fool  of  a  soldier. 
Fool,  fool,  fool  of  a  soldier.  .  . 

If  you're  cast  for  fatigue  by  a  sergeant  unkind 
Don't  grouse  like  a  woman  nor  crack  on  nor 

blind ; 
Be  handy  and  civil  and  then  you  will  find 

That  it's  beer  for  the  young  British  sol- 
dier. 
Beer,  beer,  beer  for  the  soldier.  .  . 

Now,  if  you  must  marry,  take  care  she  is  old — 
A  troop-sergeant's  widow's  the  nicest  I'm 

told— 

For  beauty  won't  help  if  your  rations  is  cold, 
Nor  love  ain't  enough  for  a  soldier. 
'Nough,   'nough,   'nough    for    a    sol- 
dier. , 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  129 

If  the  wife  should  go  wrong  with  a  comrade, 

be  loth 
To  shoot  when  you  catch  'em — you'll  swing, 

on  my  oath ! — 
Make  'im  take  'er  and  keep  'er :  that's  Hell  for 

them  both, 

An'  you're  shut  o'  the  curse  of  a  soldier. 
Curse,  curse,  curse  o'  a  soldier.  .  .  . 

When  first   under  fire  an'   you're   wishful  to 

duck 
Don't  look  nor  take  'eed  at  the  man  that  is 

struck 
Be  thankful  you're  livin',  and  trust  to  your  luck 

And  march  to  your  front  like  a  soldier. 
Front,  front,  front  like  a  soldier.  .  . 

When  'arf  of  your  bullets  fly  wide  in  the  ditch, 
Don't  call  your  Martini  a  cross-eyed  old  bitch ; 
She's  human  as  you  are — you  treat  her  as  sich, 
An'  she'll  fight  for  the  young  British  sol- 
dier. 

Fight,  fight,  fight  for  the  soldier.  .  .  . 

When  shakin'  their  bustles  like  ladies  so  fine, 
The  guns  o'  the  enemy  wheel  into  line; 
Shoot  low  at  the  limbers  an'  don't  mind  the 
shine. 


130  POEMS,  BALLADS 

For  noise  never  startles  the  soldier. 
Start-,  start-,  startles  the  soldier.  .  .  . 

If  your  officer's  dead  and  the  sergeants  look 

white, 

Remember  it's  ruin  to  run  from  a  fight : 
So  take  open  order,  lie  down,  and  sit  tight, 

And  wait  for  supports  like  a  soldier. 
Wait,  wait,  wait  like  a  soldier.  .  .  . 

When  you're  wounded  and  left  on  Afghanis- 
tan's plains, 

And  the  women  come  out  to  cut  up  what  re- 
mains, 

Jest  roll  to  your  rifle  and  blow  out  your  brains 
An'  go  to  your  Gawd  like  a  soldier. 
Go,  go,  go  like  a  soldier, 
Go,  go,  go  like  a  soldier, 
Go,  go,  go  like  a  soldier, 
So-oldier  of  the  Queen ! 


MANDALAY 

BY  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward 
to  the  sea, 

There's  a  Burma  girl  a-settin',  and  I  know  she 
thinks  o'  me ; 

For  the  wind  is  in  the  palm-trees,  and  the  tem- 
ple-bells they  say : 

"Come  you  back,  you  British  soldier;  come 
you  back  to  Mandalay!" 

Come  you  back  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay : 

Can't  you  'ear  their  paddles  chunkin'  from 

Rangoon  to  Mandalay? 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play, 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer 

China  'crost  the  Bay ! 

'Er  petticoat  was  yaller  an'  'er  little  cap  was 

green, 
An'  'er  name  was  Supi-yaw-lat — jes'  the  same 

as  Theebaw's  Queen, 
131 


132  POEMS,  BALLADS 

An'  I  seed  her  first  a-smokin'  of  a  whackiri 

white  cheroot, 
An'-a-wastin'  Christian  kisses   on   an  'eathen 

idol's  foot: 

Bloomin'  idol  made  o'  mud — 

What  they  called  the  Great  Gawd  Budd — 

Plucky  lot  she    cared    for  idols    when  I 

kissed  'er  where  she  stud! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay,  etc. 

When  the  mist  was  on  the  rice-fields  an'  the  sun 

was  droppin'  slow, 
She'd  git  'er  little  banjo  an'  she'd  sing  "Kulla- 

lo-lo!" 
With  'er  arm  upon  my  shoulder  an'  'er  cheek 

agin  my  cheek 
We  useter  watch  the  steamers  an'  the  hathis 

pilin'  teak. 

Elephints  a-pilin'  teak 

In  the  sludgy,  squdgy  creek, 

Where  the  silence  'ung  that  'eavy  you  was 

'arf  afraid  to  speak ! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay,  etc. 

But  that's  all  shove  be'ind  me — long  ago  an* 

fur  away, 
An'  there  ain't  no    'busses  runnin'    from  the 

Gank  to  Mandalay; 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  133 

An'  I'm  learnin*  'ere  in  London  what  the  ten- 
year  soldier  tells : 

"If  you've  'card  the  East  a-callin',  you  won't 
never  'eed  naught  else." 

No !  you  won't  'eed  nothin'  else 

But  them  spicy  garlic  smells, 

An'  the  sunshine  an'  the  palm-trees  an* 

the  tinkly  temple-bells; 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay,  etc. 

I  am  sick  o'  wastin'  leather  on  these  gritty 
pavin'-stones, 

An'  the  blasted  Henglish  drizzle  wakes  the 
fever  in  my  bones; 

Tho'  I  walks  with  fifty  'ousemaids  outer  Chel- 
sea to  the  Strand, 

An'  they  talks  a  lot  o'  lovin,'  but  wot  do  they 
understand  ? 

Beefy  face  an'  grubby  'and — 

Law!  wot  do  they  understand? 

I've  a  neater,  sweeter  maiden  in  a  cleaner, 

greener  land! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay,  etc. 

Ship  me  somewheres  east  of  Suez,  where  the 

best  is  like  the  worst, 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments  an' 

a  man  can  raise  a  thirst : 


134  POEMS,  BALLADS 

For  the  temple-bells  are  callin',  and  it's  there 

that  I  would  be — 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  looking  lazy  at 

the  sea ; 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay, 

With  our  sick  beneath  the  awnings  when 

we  went  to  Mandalay ! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play, 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer 

China  'crost  the  Bay! 


TROOPIN' 

(OUR  ARMY  IN  THE  EAST) 

TROOPIN',  troopin',  troopin'  to  the  sea : 

'Ere's    September    come    again — the  six-year 

men  are  free. 
O  leave  the  dead  be'ind  us,    for  they   cannot 

come  away 
To  where  the  ship's  a-coalin'  up  that  takes  us 

'ome  to-day. 

We're  goin'  'ome,  we're  goin'  'ome, 

Our  ship  is  at  the  shore, 

An'  you  must  pack  your  'aversack, 

For  we  won't  come  back  no  more. 

Ho,  don't  you  grieve  for  me, 

My  lovely  Mary-Ann, 

For  I'll  marry  you  yit  on  a  fourp'ny  bit 

As  a  time-expired  man! 

The  Malabar's  in  'arbor  with  the  Jumner  at  'er 

tail, 
An*  the  time-expired's  waitin*  of  'is  orders  for 

to  sail. 

135 


136  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Ho !  the  weary  waitin'  when  on  Khyber  'ills  we 

lay, 
But  the   time-expired's   waitin'   of  'is   orders 

'ome  to-day. 

They'll  turn  us  out  at  Portsmouth  wharf  in 

cold  an'  wet  an'  rain, 
All  wearin'  Injian  cotton  kit,  but  we  will  not 

complain ; 
They'll  kill  us  of  pneumonia — for  that's  their 

little  way — 
But  damn  the  chills  and  fever,  men,  we're  goin' 

'ome  to-day ! 

Troopin',  troopin',  winter's  round  again! 

See  the  new  draf's  pourin'  in  for  the  old  cam- 
paign; 

Ho,  you  poor  recruities,  but  you've  got  to  earn 
your  pay — 

What's  the  last  from  Lunnon,  lads?  We're 
goin'  there  to-day. 

Troopin',  troopin',  give  another  cheer — 
'Ere's  to  English  women  an'  a  quart  of  English 

beer ; 
The  Colonel  an'  the  regiment  an'  all  who've 

got  to  stay, 
Gawd's  mercy  strike  'em  gentle —     Whoop! 

we're  goin'  'ome  to-day. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  137 

We're  goin'  'ome,  we're  goin'  'ome, 

Our  ship  is  at  the  shore, 

An'  you  must  pack  your  'aversack, 

For  we  won't  come  back  no  more. 

Ho,  don't  you  grieve  for  me, 

My  lovely  Mary-Ann, 

For  I'll  marry  you  yit  on  a  fourp'ny  bit 

As  a  time-expired  man. 


FORD  O'  KABUL  RIVER 

KABUL  town's  by  Kabul  river — 

Blow  the  bugle,  draw  the  sword — • 
There  I  lef '  my  mate  forever, 
Wet  an'  drippin'  by  the  ford. 
Ford,  ford,  ford  o'  Kabul  river, 

Ford  o'  Kabul  river  in  the  dark ! 
There's  the  river  up  and  brimmin',  an' 

there's  'arf  a  squadron  swimmin' 
'Cross  the  ford  o'  Kabul   river   in  the 
dark. 


Kabul  town's  a  blasted  place — 

Blow  the  bugle,  draw  the  sword — 
'Strewth  I  sha'n't  forget  'is  face 
Wet  an'  drippin'  by  the  ford! 
Ford,  ford,  ford  o'  Kabul  river, 

Ford  o'  Kabul  river  in  the  dark ! 
Keep  the  crossing-stakes  beside  you,  an' 

they  will  surely  guide  you 
'Cross  the  ford  o'  Kabul    river   in  the 
dark. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  139 

Kabul  town  is  sun  and  dust — 

Blow  the  bugle,  draw  the  sword — 
I'd  ha'  sooner  drownded  fust 
'Stead  of  'im  beside  the  ford. 
Ford,  ford,  ford  o'  Kabul  river, 

Ford  o'  Kabul  river  in  the  dark ! 
You  can  'ear  the  'orses  threshin',  you  can 

'ear  the  men  a-splashin', 
'Cross  the  ford  o'  Kabul   river   in  the 
dark. 

Kabul  town  was  ours  to  take — 

Blow  the  bugle,  draw  the  sword — 
I'd  ha'  left  it  for  'is  sake— 
'Im  that  left  me  by  the  ford. 
Ford,  ford,  ford  o'  Kabul  river, 

Ford  o'  Kabul  river  in  the  dark ! 
It's  none  so  bloomin'  dry  there;  ain't  you 

never  comin'  nigh  there, 
'Cross  the  ford  o'  Kabul   river   in  the 
dark. 

Kabul  town'll  go  to  hell — 

Blow  the  bugle,  draw  the  sword — 
*For  I  see  him  'live  an'  well — 
'Im  the  best  beside  the  ford. 

Ford,  ford,  ford  o'  Kabul  river, 
Ford  o'  Kabul  river  in  the  dark! 


140  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Gawd  'elp  'em  if  they  blunder,  for  their 

boots'll  pull  'em  under, 
By  the  ford  o'  Kabul  river  in  the  dark. 

Turn  your  'orse  from  Kabul  town — 
Blow  the  bugle,  draw  the  sword — 
'Im  an'  'arf  my  troop  is  down, 
Down  an'  drownded  by  the  ford. 
Ford,  ford,  ford  o'  Kabul  river, 

Ford  o'  Kabul  river  in  the  dark ! 
There's  the  river  low  an'  fallin',  but  it  ain't 

no  use  o'  callin' 

'Cross  the  ford  o'  Kabul  river  in  the 
dark. 


ROUTE-MARCHIN' 

WE'RE  marchin'  on  relief  over  Injia's  sunny 

plains, 
A  little  front  o'  Christmas  time  an*  just  be'ind 

the  Rains, 
Ho!  get  away,  you  bullock-man,  you've  'card 

the  bugle  blowed, 

There's  a  regiment  a-comin*  down  the  Grand 
Trunk  Road; 

With  its  best  foot  first 
And  the  road  a-sliding  past, 
An'  every  bloomin'  campin'-ground  ex- 
actly like  the  last; 
While  the  Big  Drum  says, 
With  'is  "rowdy-doivdy-dow!" — 
"Kiko  kusywarsti  don't  you   hamsher 
argy-jow?" 

Oh,  there's    them  Injian  temples    to  admire 

when  you  see, 
There's  the  peacock  round  the  corner  an'  the 

monkey  up  the  tree, 
141 


142  POEMS,  BALLADS 

An*  there's  that  rummy  silver  grass  a-wavin'  in 
the  wind, 

An'  the  old  Grand  Trunk  a  trailin'  like  a  rifle- 
sling  be'ind. 

While  it's  best  foot  first,  etc. 

At  half-past  five's  Revelly,  an'  our  tents  they 

down  must  come, 
Like  a  lot  of  button  mushrooms  when  you  pick 

'em  up  at  'ome. 
But  it's  over  in  a  minute,  an'  at  six  the  column 

starts, 
While  the  women  and  the  kiddies  sit  an'  shiver 

in  the  carts. 

And  it's  best  foot  first,  etc. 

Oh,  then  it's  open  order,  an'  we  lights  our  pipes 

an'  sings, 
An'  we  talks  about  our    rations  an'  a  lot   of 

other  things, 
And  we  thinks  o'  friends  in  England,  an'  we 

wonders  what  they're  at, 
An*  'ow  they  would  admire  for  to  hear  us  sling 

the  laC 

An'  it's  best  foot  first,  etc. 

It's  none  so  bad  o'  Sunday,  when  you're  lyin* 
at  your  ease, 

TThomas's  first  and  firmest  conviction  Is  that  he  is  a  profound  Orient- 
alist and  a  fluent  speaker  of  Hindustani.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  depends 
largely  on  the  sign-language. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  143 

To  watch   the  kites    a-wheelin'    round    them 

feather-'eaded  trees, 
For  although  there  ain't  no  women  yet  there 

ain't  no  barrick-yards, 
So  the  orficers  goes  shootin'  an'  the  men  they 

plays  at  cards. 

Till  it's  best  foot  first,  etc. 


So  'ark  an'  'eed  you  rookies,  which  is  always 

grumblin'  sore, 
There's  worser  things  than  marchin'  from  Um- 

balla  to  Cawnpore; 
And  if  your  'eels  are  blistered  an'  they  feels  to 

'urt  like  'ell 
You  drop  some  tallow  in  your  socks  an'  that 

will  make  'em  well. 

For  it's  best  foot  first,  etc 


We're  marchin'  on  relief  over  Injia's  coral 
strand, 

Eight  'undred  fightin'  Englishmen,  the  Col- 
onel, and  the  Band. 

Ho!  get  away,  you  bullock-man,  you've  'card 
the  bugle  blowed. 

There's  a  regiment  a-comin*  down  the  Grand 
Trunk  Road. 


144  POEMS,  BALLADS 

With  its  best  foot  first 
And  the  road  a-slidin'  past, 
An'  every  bloomin'  campin'-ground  ex- 
actly like  the  last; 
While  the  Big  Drum  says, 
With  'is  "rowdy-dowdy-dow!" — 
"Kiko  kissywarsti  don't  you   hamsher 
argy-jow?" 1 

1  Why  don't  you  get  on? 


DEPARTMENTAL  DITTIES 


/  have  eaten  your  bread  and  salt, 
I  have  drunk  your  water  and  wine, 

The  deaths  ye  died  I  have  watched  beside, 
And  the  lives  that  ye  led  were  mine. 

Was  there  aught  that  I  did  not  share 

In  vigil  or  toil  or  ease, — 
One  joy  or  woe  that  I  did  not  know, 

Dear  hearts  across  the  seas? 

I  have  written  the  tale  of  our  life 
For  a  sheltered  people's  mirth, 

In  jesting  guise — but  ye  are  wise, 
And  ye  know  what  the  jest  is  worth. 


GENERAL  SUMMARY 

WE  are  very  slightly  changed 
From  the  semi-apes  who  ranged 

India's  prehistoric  clay; 
Whoso  drew  the  longest  bow, 
Ran  his  brother  down,  you  know, 

As  we  run  men  down  to-day. 

"Dowb,"  the  first  of  all  his  race, 
Met  the  Mammoth  face  to  face 

On  the  lake  or  in  the  cave, 
Stole  the  steadiest  canoe, 
Ate  the  quarry  others  slew, 

Died — and  took  the  finest  grave. 

When  they  scratched  the  reindeer-bone, 
Some  one  made  the  sketch  his  own, 

Filched  it  from  the  artist — then, 
Even  as  it  does  in  this  age. 
Won  a  simple  viceroy's  praise 

Through  the  toil  of  other  men. 

Ere  they  hewed  the  Sphinx's  visage 
Favoritism  governed  kissage, 
Even  in  those  early  days, 


150  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Who  shall  doubt  the  secret  hid 
Under  Cheops'  pyramid 
Was  that  the  contractor  did 

Cheops  out  of  several  millions? 
Or  that  Joseph's  sudden  rise 
To  Comptroller  of  Supplies 
Was  a  fraud  of  monstrous  size 

On  King  Pharaoh's  swart  Civilians? 

Thus,  the  artless  songs  I  sing 
Do  not  deal  with  anything 

New  or  never  said  before. 
As  it  was  in  the  beginning, 
Is  to-day  official  sinning, 

And  shall  be  forevermore. 


ARMY  HEADQUARTERS 

Old  is  the  song  that  I  sing — 

Old  as  my  unpaid  bills — 
Old  as  the  chicken  that  kitmutgars  bring 

Men  at  dak-bungalows — old  as  the  Hills. 

AHASUERUS  JENKINS  of  the  "Operatic  Own" 
Was  dowered    with   a   tenor   voice   of  super- 

Santley  tone. 
His  views  on  equitation  were,  perhaps,  a  trifle 

queer ; 
He  had  no  seat  worth  mentioning,  but  oh !  he 

had  an  ear. 

He  clubbed  his  wretched  company  a  dozen 
times  a  day, 

He  used  to  quit  his  charger  in  a  parabolic  way, 

His  method  of  saluting  was  the  joy  of  all  be- 
holders, 

But  Ahasuerus  Jenkins  had  a  head  upon  his 
shoulders. 

He  took  two  months  to  Simla  when  the  year 

was  at  the  spring. 
And  underneath  the  deodars  eternally  did  sing. 


152  POEMS,  BALLADS 

He  warbled  like  a  bulbul,  but  particularly  at 

Cornelia  Agrippina  who  was  musical  and  fat. 

She  controlled  a  humble  husband,  who,  in  turn, 
controlled  a  Dept, 

Where  Cornelia  Agrippina's  human  singing- 
birds  were  kept 

From  April  to  October  on  a  plump  retaining 
fee, 

Supplied,  of  course,  per  mensem,  by  the  Indian 
Treasury. 

Cornelia  used  to  sing  with  him,  and  Jenkins 
used  to  play  ; 

He  praised  unblushingly  her  notes,  for  he  was 
false  as  they: 

So  when  the  winds  of  April  turned  the  bud- 
ding roses  brown, 

Cornelia  told  her  husband :  "Tom,  you  mustn't 
send  him  down." 

They    haled  him   from    his  regiment   which 

didn't  much  regret  him; 
They  found  for  him  an  office-stool,  and  on  that 

stool  they  set  him, 
To  play  with  maps  and  catalogues  three  idle 

hours  a  day, 
And  draw  his    plump     retaining  fee — which 

means  his  double  pay. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  153 

Now,  ever  after  dinner,  when  the  coffee-cups 

are  brought, 

Ahasuerus  waileth  o'er  the  grand  pianoforte; 
And,  thanks  to  fair  Cornelia,  his  fame  hath 

waxen  great, 
And  Ahasuerus  Jenkins  is  a  power  in  the  State. 


STUDY  OF  AN  ELEVATION,  IN 
INDIAN  INK 

This  ditty  is  a  string  of  lies. 

But — how  the  deuce  did  Gubbins  rise? 

POTIPHAR  GUBBINS,,  C.  E., 
Stands  at  the  top  of  the  tree; 
And  I  muse  in  my  bed  on  the  reasons  that  led 
To  the  hoisting  of  Potiphar  G. 

Potiphar  Gubbins,  C.  E., 
Is  seven  years  junior  to  Me; 
Each  bridge  that  he  makes  he  either  buckles  or 
breaks, 

And  his  work  is  as  rough  as  he. 

Potiphar  Gubbins,  C.  E., 
Is  coarse  as  a  chimpanzee; 
And  I  can't  understand    why  you    gave  him 
your  hand, 

Lovely  Mehitabel  Lee. 

Potiphar  Gubbins,  C.  E., 
Is  dear  to  the  Powers  that  Be ; 
For  They  bow  and  They  smile  in  an  affable 
style 
Which  is  seldom  accorded  to  Me. 

IS4 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  155 

Potiphar  Gubbins,  C  E., 
Is  certain  as  certain  can  be 
Of  a  highly-paid  post  which  is  claimed  by  a 
host 

Of  seniors — including  Me. 

Careless  and  lazy  is  he, 
Greatly  inferior  to  Me. 
What  is  the  spell  that  you  manage  so  well 
Commonplace  Potiphar  G.  ? 

Lovely  Mehitabel  Lee, 
Let  me  inquire  of  thee, 
Should  I  have  riz  to  what  Potiphar  is, 
Hadst  thou  been  mated  to  Me  ? 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  FOREIGN  OFFICE 

This  is  the  reason  why  Rustum  Beg, 

Rajah   of   Kolazai, 
Drinketh  the  "simpkin"  and  brandy  peg, 

Maketh  the  money  to  fly, 
Vexeth  a  Government,  tender  and  kind, 
Also — but  this   is   a   detail — blind. 

RUSTUM  BEG  of  Kolazai — slightly  backward 

native  state — 

Lusted  for  a  C.  S.  I., — so  began  to  sanitate. 
Built  a  Jail  and  Hospital — nearly  built  a  City 

drain — 
Till  his  faithful  subjects  all  thought  their  ruler 

was  insane. 

Strange  departures  made  he  then — yea,  De- 
partments stranger  still, 

Half  a  dozen  Englishmen  helped  the  Rajah 
with  a  will, 

Talked  of  noble  aims  and  high,  hinted  of  a 
future  fine 

For  the  state  of  Kolazai,  on  a  strictly  Western 
line. 

156 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  157 

Rajah  Rustum  held  his  peace;  lowered  octroi 

dues  a  half; 
Organized  a  State   Police;    purified  the  Civil 

Staff; 
Settled  cess  and  tax  afresh    in  a  very  liberal 

way; 
Cut    temptations    of    the  flesh — also  cut  the 

Bukhshi's  pay; 

Roused  his  Secretariat  to  a  fine  Mahratta  fury, 

By  a  Hookum  hinting  at  supervision  of  das- 
turi; 

Turned  the  State  of  Kolazai  very  nearly  up- 
side-down ; 

When  the  end  of  May  was  nigh,  waited  his 
achievement  crown. 

Then  the  Birthday  Honors  came.    Sad  to  state 

and  sad  to  see, 
Stood  against  the  Rajah's  name  nothing  more 

than  C.  L  E.l 


Things  were  lively  for  a  week  in  the  State  of 
Kolazai. 

Even  now  the  people  speak  of  that  time  regret- 
fully. 


158  POEMS,  BALLADS 

How  he  disendowed  the  jail — stopped  at  once 

the  City  drain; 
Turned  to  beauty  fair  and  frail — got  his  senses 

back  again; 
Doubled  taxes,  cesses,  all;  cleared  away  each 

new-built  thana; 
Turned  the  two-lakh  Hospital  into  a  superb 

Zenana; 

Heaped  upon  the  Bukhshi  Sahib  wealth  and 

honors  manifold; 
Clad  himself  in  Eastern    garb — squeezed    his 

people  as  of  old. 
Happy,  happy  Kolazai !  Never  more  will  Rus- 

tum  Beg 
Play  to  catch  the  viceroy's  eye.    He  prefers  the 

"simpkin"  peg. 


THE  STORY  OF  URIAH 

"Now  there  were  two  men  in  one  city;  the  one  rich 
and  the  other  poor." 

JACK  BARRETT  went  to  Quetta 

Because  they  told  him  to. 
He  left  his  wife  at  Simla 

On  three- fourths  his  monthly  screw: 
Jack  Barrett  died  at  Quetta 

Ere  the  next  month's  pay  he  drew. 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta. 

He  didn't  understand 
The  reason  of  his  transfer 

From  the  pleasant  mountain-land : 
The  season  was  September, 

And  it  killed  him  out  of  hand. 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta, 

And  there  gave  up  the  ghost, 
Attempting  two  men's  duty 

In  that  very  health}'  post; 
And  Mrs.  Barrett  mourned  for  him 

Five  lively  months  at  most 

X59.  . 


160  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Jack  Barrett's  bones  at  Quetta 

Enjoy  profound  repose; 
But  I  shouldn't  be  astonished 

If  now  his  spirit  knows 
The  reason  of  his  transfer 

From  the  Himalayan  snows. 

And,  when  the  last  Great  Bugle  Call 

Adown  the  Hurnai  throbs, 
When  the  last  grim  joke  is  entered 
In  the  big  black  Book  of  Jobs, 
And  Quetta  graveyards  give  again 

Their  victims  to  the  air, 
I  shouldn't  like  to  be  the  man 
Who  sent  Jack  Barrett  there. 


THE  POST  THAT  FITTED 

Though  tangled  and  twisted  the  course  of  true  love, 

This   ditty  explains 
No  tangle's  so  tangled  it  cannot  improve 

If  the  Lover  has  brains. 

ERE  the  steamer  bore  him  Eastward,    Sleary 

was  engaged  to  marry 
An   attractive    girl  at    Tunbridge,    whom  he 

called  "my  little  Carrie." 
Sleary's  pay  was  very  modest ;  Sleary  was  the 

other  way. 
Who  can  cook   a  two-plate   dinner   on  eight 

paltry  dibs  a  day? 

Long  he   pondered   o'er  the   question  in  his 

scantly  furnished  quarters — 
Then  proposed  to  Minnie    Boffkin,   eldest  of 

Judge  Boffkin's  daughters. 
Certainly  an  impecunious  Subaltern  was  not  a 

catch, 
But  the  Boffkins  knew  that  Minnie  mightn't 

make  another  match. 

161 


162  POEMS,  BALLADS 

So  they  recognized  the  business,  and,  to  feed 
and  clothe  the  bride, 

Got  him  made  a  Something  Something  some- 
where on  the  Bombay  side. 

Anyhow,  the  billet  carried  pay  enough  for  him 
to  marry — 

As  the  artless  Sleary  put  it:  "Just  the  thing 
for  me  and  Carrie." 


Did  he,  therefore,  jilt  Miss  Boffkin — impulse 

of  a  baser  mind? 
No!  He  started  epileptic  fits  of  an  appalling 

kind. 
(Of  his  modus    operandi   only  this    much  I 

could  gather : 
"Pears'  shaving  sticks  give  you  little  taste  and 

lots  of  lather.") 


Frequently  in  public  places  his  affliction  used 
to  smite 

Sleary  with  distressing  vigor — always  in  the 
Boffkins'  sight. 

Ere  a  week  was  over  Minnie  weepingly  re- 
turned his  ring, 

Told  him  his  "unhappy  weakness"  stopped  all 
thought  of  marrying. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  163 

Sleary  bore  the  information  with  a  chastened 

holy  joy, — 

Epileptic  fits    don't    matter    in    Political  em- 
ploy- 
Wired  three  short  words  to  Carrie — took  his 

ticket,  packed  his  kit — 

Bade  farewell  to  Minnie  Boffkin  in  one  last, 
long,  lingering  fit 

Four  weeks   later,    Carrie    Sleary   read — and 

laughed  until  she  wept — 
Mrs.  Boffkin's  warning  letter  on  the  "wretched 

epilept." 
Year  by  year,  in  pious  patience,  vengeful  Mrs. 

Boffkin  sits 
Waiting    for  the    Sleary  babies    to  develop 

Sleary's  fits. 


PUBLIC  WASTE 

Walpole  talks  of  "a  man  and  his  price." 
List  to  a  ditty  queer — 

The  sale  of  a  Deputy-Acting-Vice- 
Resident-Engineer, 

Bought  like  a  bullock,  hoof  and  hide, 

By  the  Little  Tin  Gods  on  the  Mountain  Side. 

BY  the  Laws  of  the  Family  Circle  'tis  written 
in  letters  of  brass 

That  only  a  Colonel  from  Chatham  can  man- 
age the  Railways  of  State, 

Because  of  the  gold  on  his  breeks,  and  the  sub- 
jects wherein  he  must  pass : 

Because  in  all  matters  that  deal  not  with  Rail- 
ways his  knowledge  is  great. 

Now  Exeter  Battleby  Tring  had  labored  from 
boyhood  to  eld 

On  the  Lines  of  the  East  and  the  West,  and 
eke  of  the  North  and  South ; 

Many  Lines  had  he  built  and  surveyed — impor- 
tant the  posts  which  he  held ; 

And  the  Lords  of  the  Iron  Horse  were  dumb 
when  he  opened  his  mouth. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  165 

Black  as  the  raven  his  garb,  and  his  heresies 

jettier  still — 
Hinting  that   Railways  required  lifetimes  of 

study  and  knowledge; 
Never  clanked  sword  by  his  side — Vauban  he 

knew  not,  nor  drill — 
Nor  was  his  name  on  the  list  of  the  men  who 

had  passed  through  the  "College." 


Wherefore  the  Little  Tin  Gods  harried  their 

little  tin  souls, 
Seeing  he  came  not  from  Chatham,  jingled  no 

spurs  at  his  heels, 
Knowing  that,  nevertheless,  was  he  first  on  the 

Government  rolls 
For  the  billet  of  "Railway  Instructor  to  Little 

Tin  Gods  on  Wheels." 


Letters  not  seldom  they  wrote  him,  "having 

the  honor  to  state," 
It  would  be  better  for  all  men  if  he  were  laid  on 

the  shelf: 
Much  would  accrue  to  his  bank-book,  and  he 

consented  to  wait 
Until  the  Little  Tin  Gods  built  him  a  berth  for 

himself. 


166  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"Special,  well  paid,  and  exempt  from  the  Law 

of  the  Fifty  and  Five, 
Even  to  Ninety  and    Nine" — these    were  the 

terms  of  the  pact: 
Thus  did  the  little  Tin  Gods  (long  may  Their 

Highnesses  thrive!) 
Silence  his  mouth  with  rupees,  keeping  their 

Circle  intact; 

Appointing   a   Colonel    from    Chatham   who 

managed  the  Bhamo  State  Line. 
(The  which  was  one  mile  and  one  furlong — a 

guaranteed  twenty-inch  gauge). 
So  Exeter  Battleby  Tring  consented  his  claims 

to  resign, 
And  died,  on  four  thousand  a  month,  in  the 

ninetieth  year  of  his  age. 


DELILAH 

We  have  another  Viceroy  now,  those  days  are  dead 

and  done, 
Of  Delilah  Aberyswith  and  depraved  Ulysses  Gunne. 

DELILAH  ABERYSWITH  was  a  lady — not  too 
young — 

With  a  perfect  taste  in  dresses,  and  a  badly- 
bitted  tongue, 

With  a  thirst  for  information,  and  a  greater 
thirst  for  praise, 

And  a  little  house  in  Simla,  in  the  Prehistoric 
Days. 

By  reason  of  her  marriage  to  a  gentleman  in 

power, 
Delilah  was  acquainted  with  the  gossip  of  the 

hour; 

And  many  little  secrets,  of  a  half-official  kind, 
Were  whispered  to  Delilah,  and  she  bore  them 

all  in  mind. 

She  patronized   extensively   a   man,   Ulysses 

Gunne, 
Whose  mode  of  earning  money  was  a  low  and 

shameful  one. 

167 


i68  POEMS,  BALLADS 

He  wrote  for  divers  papers,  which,  as  every- 
body knows, 

Is  worse  than  serving  in  a  shop  or  scaring  off 
the  crows. 

He  praised  her  "queenly  beauty"  first;  and, 
later  on,  he  hinted 

At  the  "vastness  of  her  intellect"  with  compli- 
ment unstinted. 

He  went  with  her  a-riding,  and  his  love  for 
her  was  such 

That  he  loaned  her  all  his  horses,  and — she 
galled  them  very  much. 

One  day,  THEY  brewed  a  secret  of  a  fine  fin- 
ancial sort; 

It  related  to  Appointments,  to  a  Man  and  a 
Report. 

'Twas  almost  worth  the  keeping  (only  seven 
people  knew  it), 

And  Gunne  rose  up  to  seek  the  truth  and  pa- 
tiently ensue  it. 

It  was  a  Viceroy's  Secret,  but — perhaps  the 

wine  was  red — 
Perhaps  an  Aged  Councillor  had  lost  his  aged 

head — 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  169 

Perhaps  Delilah's  eyes  were  bright — Delilah's 
whispers  sweet — 

The  Aged  Member  told  her  what  'twere  trea- 
son to  repeat 

Ulysses  went  a-riding,  and  they  talked  of  love 
and  flowers; 

Ulysses  went  a-calling,  and  he  called  for  sev- 
eral hours; 

Ulysses  went  a-waltzing,  and  Delilah  helped 
him  dance — 

Ulysses  let  the  waltzes  go,  and  waited  for  his 
chance. 

The  summer  sun  was  setting,  and  the  summer 

air  was  still, 
The  couple  went  a-walking  in  the  shade  of 

Summer  Hill, 
The  wasteful  sunset  faded  out  in  turkis-green 

and  gold, 
Ulysses  pleaded  softly,  and    .    .    .    that  bad 

Delilah  told! 

Next  morn,  a  startled  Empire  learned  the  all- 
important  news; 

Next  week,  the  Aged  Councillor  was  shaking 
in  his  shoes; 


POEMS,  BALLADS 

Next  month,  I  met  Delilah,  and  she  did  not 

show  the  least 
Hesitation  in  affirming    that    Ulysses    was  a 

"beast." 

****** 

We  have  another  Viceroy  now,  those  days  are 

dead  and  done, 
Of     Delilah     Aberyswith    and    most    mean 

Ulysses  Gunne! 


WHAT  HAPPENED 

HURREE    CHUNDER    MOOKERJEE,    pride    of 

Bow  Bazar, 

Owner  of  a  native  press,  "Barrishter-at-Lar." 
Waited  on  the  Government  with  a  claim  to 

wear 
Sabres  by  the  bucketful,  rifles  by  the  pair. 

Then  the  Indian  Government  winked  a  wicked 

wink, 
Said  to  Chunder  Mookerjee:     "Stick  to  pen 

and  ink, 

They  are  safer  implements;  but,  if  you  insist, 
We  will  let  you  carry  arms  whereso'er  you 

list." 

Hurree  Chunder  Mookerjee  sought  the  gun- 
smith and 

Bought  the  tuber  of  Lancaster,  ballard,  Dean 
and  Bland, 

Bought  a  shiny  bowie-knife,  bought  a  town- 
made  sword, 

Jingled  like  a  carriage-horse  when  he  went 
abroad. 


172  POEMS,  BALLADS 

But  the  Indian  Government,  always  keen  to 

please, 
Also  gave  permission    to    horrid    men    like 

these — 
Yar  Mahommed   Yusufzai,   down  to  kill  or 

steal, 
Chimbu    Singh   from   Bikaneer,    Tantia   the 

Bhil. 

Killar  Khan,  the  Marri  chief,  Jowar  Singh 

the  Sikh, 
Nubbee    Baksh     Punjabi    Jat,     Abdul    Huq 

Rafiq— 

He  was  a  Wahabi;  last,  little  Boh  Hla-oo  — 
Took  advantage  of  the  act — took  a  Snider  too. 

They  were  unenlightened  men,  Ballard  knew 

them  not, 
They  procured  their  swords  and  guns  chiefly 

on  the  spot, 
And  the  lore    of    centuries,  plus    a  hundred 

fights, 
Made  them  slow  to  disregard  one  another's 

rights. 

With  a  unanimity  dear  to  patriotic  hearts 
All  those  hairy  gentlemen  out  of  foreign  parts 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  173 

Said :  "The  good  old  days  are  back — let  us  go 

to  war!" 
Swaggered  down  the  Grand  Trunk  Road,  into 

Bow  Bazar. 

Nubbee  Baksh  Punjabi  Jat  found  a  hide- 
bound flail, 

Chimbu  Singh  from  Bikaneer  oiled  his  Tonk 
jezail, 

Ynr  Mahommed  Yusufzai  spat  and  grinned 
with  glee 

As  he  ground  the  butcher-knife  of  the  Khy- 
beree. 


Jowar  Singh  the  Sikh  procured  sabre,  quoit, 

and  mace, 
Abdul  Huq,  Wahabi,  took  the  dagger  from 

its  place, 
While    amid     the    jungle-grass    danced     and 

grinned  and  jabbered 
Little  Boh  Hla-oo  and  cleared  the  dah-blade 

from  the  scabbard. 

What  became  of  Mookerjee?     Soothly,  who 

can  say? 
Yar  Mahommed  only  grins  in  a  nasty  way, 


174  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Jowar  Singh    is    reticent,    Chimbu    Singh  is 

mute, 
But  the  belts    of  them   all  simply  bulge  with 

loot. 

What  became    of    BallarcTs    guns?     Afghans 

black  and  grubby 
Sell  them  for  their  silver  weight  to  the  men  of 

Pubbi; 
And  the  shiny  bowie-knife  and  the  town-made 

sword  are 
Hanging    in  a    Marri  camp    just    across  the 

Border. 

What  became  of  Mookerjee?  Ask  Mahommed 

Yar 
Prodding  Siva's  sacred    bull  down    the  Bow 

Bazar. 
Speak  to  placid  Nubbee  Baksh — question  land 

and  sea — 
Ask  the  Indian  Congress  men — only  don't  ask 

me! 


PINK  DOMINOES 

"They  are  fools  who  kiss  and  tell" 

Wisely  has  the  poet  sung. 
Man  may  hold  all  sorts  of  posts 

If  he'll  only  hold  his  tongue. 

JENNY  and  Me  were  engaged,  you  see, 

On  the  eve  of  the  Fancy  Ball ; 
So  a  kiss  or  two  was  nothing  to  you 

Or  any  one  else  at  all. 

Jenny  would  go  in  a  domino — 

Pretty  and  pink,  but  warm; 
While  I  attended,  clad  in  a  splendid 

Austrian  uniform. 

Now  we   had    arranged,    through    notes  ex- 
changed 

Early  that  afternoon, 
At  Number  Four  to  waltz  no  more, 

But  to  sit  in  the  dusk  and  spoon. 

(I  wish  you  to  see  that  Jenny  and  Me 
Had  barely  exchanged  our  troth; 

So  a  kiss  or  two  was  strictly  due 
By,  from,  and  between  us  both.) 

175 


176  POEMS,  BALLADS 

When  Three  was  over,  an  eager  lover, 
I  fled  to  the  gloom  outside ; 

And  a  Domino  came  out  also 

Whom  I  took  for  my  future  bride. 


That  is  to  say,  in  a  casual  way, 

I  slipped  my  arm  around  her; 
With  a  kiss  or  two  (which  is  nothing  to  you), 

And  ready  to  kiss  I  found  her. 


She  turned  her  head,  and  the  name  she  said 

Was  certainly  not  my  own ; 
But  ere  I  could  speak,  with  a  smothered  shriek 

She  fled  and  left  me  alone. 


Then  Jenny  came,  and  I  saw  with  shame 

She'd  doffed  her  domino ; 
And  I  had  embraced  an  alien  waist— 

But  I  did  not  tell  her  so. 


Next  morn  I  knew  that  there  were  two 

Dominoes  pink,  and  one 
Had  cloaked  the  spouse  of  Sir  Julian  Vouse, 

Our  big  political  gun. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  177 

Sir  J.  was  old,  and  her  hair  was  gold, 
And  her  eye  was  a  blue  cerulean ; 

And  the  name  she  said  when  she  turned  her 

head 
Was  not  in  the  least  like  "Julian." 

Now  wasn't  it  nice,  when  want  of  pice 

Forbade  us  twain  to  marry, 
That  old  Sir  J.,  in  the  kindest  way, 

Made  me  his  Secreforryf 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  WRITE 

Shun — shun  the  Bowl!  That  fatal,  facile  drink 
Has  ruined  many  geese  who  dipped  their  quills  in't, 

Bribe,  murder,  marry,  but  steer  clear  of  Ink 

Save  when  you  write  receipts  for  paid-up  bills  in't. 

There  may  be  silver  in  the  "blue-back" — all 

I  know  of  is  the  iron  and  the  gall. 

BOANERGES  BLITZEN,,  servant  of  the  Queen, 
Is  a  dismal  failure — is  a  Might-have-been. 
In  a  luckless  moment  he  discovered  men 
Rise  to  high  position  through  a  ready  pen. 

Boanerges  Blitzen  argued,  therefore :  "I 
With  the  selfsame  weapon  can  attain  as  high." 
Only  he  did  not    possess,  when   he  made  the 

trial, 
Wicked  wit  of  C-lv-n,  irony  of  L 1. 

(Men  who   spar   with   Government   need,  to 

back  their  blows, 
Something  more  than    ordinary    journalistic 

prose.) 

178 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  179 

Never    young   Civilian's    prospects   were   so 

bright, 
Till  an    Indian  paper    found  that    he  could 

write : 
Never    young    Civilian's    prospects    were    so 

dark, 
When  the  wretched  Blitzen  wrote  to  make  his 

mark. 

Certainly  he  scored  it,  bold  and  black  and  firm, 
In    that    Indian    paper — made     his     seniors 

squirm, 
Quoted    office    scandals,    wrote    the    tactless 

truth- 
Was   there   ever   known   a   more   misguided 

youth  ? 

When  the  Rag  he  wrote  for  praised  his  plucky 

game, 

Boanerges  Blitzen  felt  that  this  was  Fame: 
When  the  men  he  wrote  of  shook  their  heads 

and  swore, 
Boanerges  Blitzen  only  wrote  the  more. 

Posed  as  Young  Ithuriel,  resolute  and  grim, 
Till  he  found  promotion  didn't  come  to  him ; 
Till  he  found  that  reprimands  weekly  were  his 

lot. 
And  his  many  Districts  curiously  hot 


l8o  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Till  he  found  his  furlough   strangely  hard  to 

win, 

Boanerges  Blitzen  didn't  care  a  pin : 
Then  it  seemed  to  dawn    on  him    something 

wasn't  right — 
Boanerges  Blitzen  put  it  down  to  "spite." 

Languished  in  a  District  desolate  and  dry; 
Watched  the  Local   Government  yearly  pass 

him  by; 
Wondered  where  the  hitch  was;  called  it  most 

unfair. 

****** 
That  was  seven   years    ago— and    he  still  is 
there, 


MUNICIPAL 

"Why  is  my  District  death-rate  low?** 

Said  Binks  of  Hezabad. 
"Wells,  drains,  and  sewage-outfalls  are 

My  own  peculiar  fad. 
I  learned  a  lesson  once."     It  ran 
"Thus,"  quoth  that  most  veracious  man: 

IT  was  an  August  evening,  and,  in  snowy  gar- 
ments clad, 

I  paid  a  round  of  visits  in  the  lines  of  Heza- 
bad; 

When,  presently,  my  Waler  saw,  and  did  not 
like  at  all, 

A  Commissariat  elephant  careering  down  the 
Mall. 

I  couldn't  see  the  driver,  and  across  my  mind 

it  rushed 
That  the  Commissariat  elephant  had  suddenly 

gone  musth. 
I  didn't  care  to  meet  him,  and  I  couldn't  well 

get  down, 
So  I  let  the  Waler  have  it,  and  we  headed  for 

the  town. 

181. 


182  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  buggy  was  a  new  one,  and,  praise  Dykes, 

it  stood  the  strain, 
Till  the  Waler  jumped  a  bullock  just  above  the 

City  Drain; 
And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  a  hurricane 

of  squeals, 
And  the  creature    making    toothpicks  of  my 

five-foot  patent  wheels. 


He  seemed  to  want  the  owner,  so  I  fled,  dis- 
traught with  fear, 

To  the  Main  Drain  sewage-outfall  while  he 
snorted  in  my  ear — 

Reached  the  four-foot  drain-head  safely,  and, 
in  darkness  and  despair, 

Felt  the  brute's  proboscis  fingering  my  terror- 
stiffened  hair. 


Heard  it  trumpet  on  my  shoulder — tried  to 
crawl  a  little  higher — 

Found  the  Main  Drain  sewage-outfall 
blocked,  some  eight  feet  up,  with  mire; 

And,  for  twenty  reeking  minutes,  Sir,  my 
very  marrow  froze, 

While  the  trunk  was  feeling  blindly  for  a  pur- 
chase on  my  toes ! 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  183 

It  missed  me  by  a  fraction,  but  my  hair  was 

turning  grey 
Before  they  called  the  drivers  up  and  dragged 

the  brute  away. 
Then  I  sought  the  City  Elders,  and  my  words 

were  very  plain. 
They  flushed  that  four-foot  drain-head,  and — 

it  never  choked  again. 

You  may  hold  with  surface-drainage,  and  the 

sun-for-garbage  cure, 
Till  you've  been  a  periwinkle  shrinking  coyly 

up  a  sewer. 
7  believe  in  well-flushed  culverts  .  .  . 

This  is  why  the  death-rate's  small ; 
And,  if  you   don't   believe   me,   get  shikarred 

yourself.    That's  alL 


A  CODE  OF  MORALS 

Lest  you  should  think  this  story  true; 
I  merely  mention  I 
Evolved  it  lately.    Tis  a  most 
Unmitigated  misstatement. 

Now  Jones  had  left  his  new-wed  bride  to  keep 

his  house  in  order, 
And  hied  away  to  the  Hurrum  Hills  above  the 

Afghan  border, 
To  sit  on  a  rock  with  a  heliograph ;  but  ere  he 

left  he  taught 

His  wife  the  working  of  the  Code  that  sets  the 
miles  at  naught. 

And  Love  had  made  him  very  sage,  as  Nature 

made  her  fair; 
So  Cupid  and  Apollo   linked,  per  heliograph, 

the  pair. 
At  dawn,  across  the  Hurrum  Hills,  he  flashed 

her  counsel  wise — 
At  e'en,  the  dying  sunset  bore  her  husband's 

homilies. 

184 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  185 

He  warned  her  'gainst   seductive  youths  in 

scarlet  clad  and  gold, 
As  much  as  'gainst  the  blandishments  paternal 

of  the  old; 
But  kept  his  gravest  warnings  for  (hereby  the 

ditty  hangs) 
That  snowy-haired  Lothario,  Lieutenant-Gen- 

eral  Bangs. 


'Twas  General  Bangs,  with  Aide  and  Staff, 
that  tittupped  on  the  way, 

When  they  beheld  a  heliograph  tempestuously 
at  play; 

They  thought  of  Border  risings,  and  of  sta- 
tions sacked  and  burned — 

So  stopped  to  take  the  message  down — and 
this  is  what  they  learned : 


"Dash,  dot  dot,  dot,  dot  dash,  dot  dash  dot" 

twice.    The  General  swore. 
"Was  ever  General  Officer  addressed  as  'dear* 

before  ? 
"  'My  Love,'  i'  faith!    'My  Duck,'  Gadzooks! 

'My  darling  popsy-wop!' 
Spirit  of  great  Lord  Wolseley,  who  is  on  that 

mountain  top?" 


186  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  artless  Aide-de-camp  was  mute;  the 
gilded  Staff  were  still, 

As,  dumb  with  pent-up  mirth,  they  booked 
that  message  from  the  hill; 

For,  clear  as  summer's  lightning  flare,  the  hus- 
band's warning  ran: 

"Don't  dance  or  ride  with  General  Bangs — a 
most  immoral  man." 


(At  dawn,  across  the  Hurrum  Hills,  he 
flashed  her  counsel  wise — 

But,  howsoever  Love  be  blind,  the  world  at 
large  hath  eyes.) 

With  damnatory  dot  and  dash  he  helio- 
graphed  his  wife 

Some  interesting  details  of  the  General's  pri- 
vate life. 


The  artless  Aide-de-camp  was  mute;  the  shin- 
ing Staff  were  still, 

And  red  and  ever  redder  grew  the  General's 
shaven  gill. 

And  this  is  what  he  said  at  last  (his  feelings 
matter  not)  : 

"I  think  we've  tapped  a  private  line.  Hi! 
Threes  about  there !  Trot !" 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  187 

All  honor  unto  Bangs,    for  ne'er    did  Jones 

thereafter  know 
By  word   or   act   official   who   read   off  that 

helio. ; 
But   the   tale  is  on   the   Frontier,   and   from 

Michni  to  Moolfaw 
They  know  the  worthy  General  as  "that  most 

immoral  man." 


THE  LAST  DEPARTMENT 


Twelve  hundred  million  men  are  spread 
About  this  Earth  and  I  and  You 

Wonder,  when  You  and  I  are  dead, 
What  will  those  luckless  millions  do? 


"NONE  whole  or  clean,"  we  cry,  "or  free  from 

stain 

Of  favor."    Wait  awhile,  till  we  attain 
The  Last  Department,  where  nor  fraud  nor 

fools, 
Nor  grade  nor  greed,  shall  trouble  us  again. 

Fear,  Favor,  or  Affection — what  are  these 
To  the  grim  Head  who  claims  our  services  ? 

I  never  knew  a  wife  or  interest  yet 
Delay  that  pukka  step,  miscalled  "decease"; 

When  leave,  long  overdue,  none  can  deny; 
When  idleness  of  all  Eternity 

Becomes  our  furlough,  and  the  marigold 
Our  thriftless,  bullion-minting  Treasury. 
188 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  189 

Transferred  to  the  Eternal  Settlement, 
Each  in  his  strait,  wood-scantled  office  pent, 

No  longer  Brown  reverses  Smith's  appeals, 
Or  Jones  records  his  Minute  of  Dissent. 

And  One,  long  since  a  pillar  of  the  Court, 

As     mud     between     the     beams     thereof     is 

wrought ; 
And  One  who  wrote  on  phosphates   for  the 

crops 
Is  subject-matter  of  his  own  Report 

(These   be    the    glorious    ends    whereto    we 

pass — 

Let  Him  who  Is,  go  call  on  Him  who  Was ; 
And  He  shall  see  the  mallie  steals  the  slab 
For  currie-grinder,  and  for  goats  the  grass.) 

A  breath  of  wind,  a  Border  bullet's  flight 
A  draught  of  water,  or  a  horse's  fright — 

The  droning  of  the  fat  Sheristadar 
Ceases,  the  punkah  stops,  and  falls  the  night 

For  you  or  Me.     Do  those  who  live  decline 
The  step  that  offers,  or  their  work  resign? 

Trust  me,  To-day's  Most  Indispensable*, 
FWe  hundred    men    can  take    your    place  or 
mine. 


OTHER  VERSES 


RECESSIONAL 
(A  VICTORIAN  ODE) 

GOD  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old— » 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line—* 

Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — les^  we  forget ! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — • 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart-** 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away — - 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire— * 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

193 


194  POEMS,  BALLADS 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe — 

Such  boastings  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And,  guarding,  calls  not  Thee  to  guard. 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 

Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord  I 

Amen. 


THE  VAMPIRE 

The  verses — as  suggested  by  the  painting  by  Philip 
Burne-Jones,  first  exhibited  at  the  new  gallery  in  Lon- 
don in  1897. 

A  FOOL  there  was  and  he  made  his  prayer 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 
To  a  rag  and  a  >one  and  a  hank  of  hair 
(We  called  her  the  woman  who  did  not  care), 
But  the  fool  he  called  her  his  lady  fair 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 

Oh  the  years  we    /aste  and  the  tears  we  waste 

And  the  work  of  our  head  and  hand, 
Belong  to  the  woman  who  did  not  know 
(And  now   we   know   that   she   never   could 

know) 
And  did  not  understand. 

A  fool  there  was  and  his  goods  he  spent 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 
Honor  and  faith  and  a  sure  intent 
(And  it  wasn't  the  least  what  the  lady  meant). 
But  a  fool  must  follow  his  natural  bent 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 

195 


196  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Oh  the  toil  we  lost  and  the  spoil  we  lost 
And  the  excellent  things  we  planned, 
Belong  to  the  woman  who  didn't  know  why 
(And  now  we  know  she  never  knew  why) 
And  did  not  understand. 

The  fool  was  stripped  to  his  foolish  hide 

(Even  as  you  and  I !) 
Which  she  might  have  seen  when  she  threw 

him  aside — 

(But  it  isn't  on  record  the  lady  tried) 
So  some  of  him   lived   but  the   most   of  him 

died — 
(Even  as  you  and  I!) 

And  it  isn't  the  shame  and  it  .sn't  the  blame 

That  stings  like  a  white  hot  brand. 
It's  coming  to  know  that  she  never  knew  why 
(Seeing  at  last  she  could  never  know  why) 
And  never  could  understand. 


TO  THE  UNKNOWN  GODDESS 

WILL  you  conquer  my  heart  with  your 
beauty;  my  soul  going  out  from  afar? 

Shall  I  fall  to  your  hand  as  a  victim  of  crafty 
and  cautious  shikar? 

Have  I  met  you  and  passed  you  already,  un- 
knowing, unthinking,  and  blind? 

Shall  I  meet  you  next  session  at  Simla,  O 
sweetest  and  best  of  your  kind  ? 

Does  the  P.  and  O.  bear  you  to  me-ward,  or, 
clad  in  short  frocks  in  the  West, 

Are  you  growing  the  charms  that  shall  capture 
and  torture  the  heart  in  my  breast? 

Will  you  stay  in  the  Plains  till  September — 
my  passion  as  warm  as  the  day? 

Will  you  bring  me  to  book  on  the  Mountains, 
or  where  the  thermantidotes  play? 

When  the  light  of  your  eyes  shall  make  pallid 
the  mean  lesser  lights  I  pursue, 

And  the  charm  of  your  presence  shall  lure  me 
from  love  of  the  gay  "thirteen-two" ; 
197 


198  POEMS,  BALLADS 

When  the  peg  and  the  pig-skin  shall  please 
not;  when  I  buy  me  Calcutta-built 
clothes ; 

When  I  quit  the  Delight  of  Wild  Asses;  for- 
swearing the  swearing  of  oaths; 

As  a  deer  to  the  hand  of  the  hunter  when  I 
turn  'mid  the  gibes  of  my  friends; 

When  the  days  of  my  freedom  are  numbered, 
and  the  life  of  the  bachelor  ends. 

Ah  Goddess!  child,  spinster,  or  widow — as  of 
old  on  Mars  Hill  when  they  raised 

To  the  God  that  they  knew  not  an  altar — so  I, 
a  young  Pagan,  have  praised 

The  Goddess  I  know  not  nor  worship;  yet,  if 

half  that  men  tell  me  be  true, 
You  will  come  in  the    future,  and    therefore 

these  verses  are  written  to  you. 


THE   RUPAIYAT  OF  OMAR   KAL'VIN 

(Allowing  for  the  difference  'twixt  prose  and  rhymed 
exaggeration,  this  ought  to  reproduce  the  sense  of  what 

Sir  A told  the  nation   some  time  ago,  when   the 

Government  struck  from  our  incomes  two  per  cent.) 

Now  the  New  Year,  reviving  last  Year's  Debt, 
The  Thoughtful  Fisher  casteth  wide  his  Net; 
So  I  with  begging  Dish  and  ready  Tongue 
Assail  all  Men  for  all  that  I  can  get. 

Imports  indeed  are  gone  with  all  their  Dues — 
Lo !  Salt  a  Lever  that  I  dare  not  use, 

Nor  may  I  ask  the  Tillers  in  Bengal — 
Surely  my  Kith  and  Kin  will  not  refuse! 

Pay — and  I  promise  by  the  Dust  of  Spring, 
Retrenchment.     If  my  promises  can  bring 
Comfort,  Ye  have  Them  now  a  thousand- 
fold— 
By  Allah !  I  will  promise  Anything! 

Indeed,  indeed,  Retrenchment  oft  before 
I  swore — but  did  I  mean  it  when  I  swore? 
And  then,  and  then,  We  wandered  to  the  Hills 
And  so  the  Little  Less  became  Much  More. 
199 


200  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Whether  at  Boileaugunge  or  Babylon, 
I  know  not  how  the  wretched  Thing  is  done, 
The  Items  of  Receipt  grow  surely  small; 
The  Items  of  Expense  mount  one  by  one. 

I  cannot  help  it.    What  have  I  to  do 

With  One  and    Five,  or  Four,    or  Three,  or 

Two? 
Let  Scribes  spit  Blood  and  Sulphur  as  they 

please, 
Or  Statemen  call  me  foolish — Heed  not  you. 

Behold,  I  promise — Anything  You  will. 
Behold,  I  greet  you  with  an  empty  Till — 

Ah !  Fellow-Sinners,  of  your  Charity 
Seek  not  the  Reason  of  the  Dearth,  but  fill. 

For  if  I  sinned  and  fell,  where  lies  the  Gain 
Of  Knowledge?     Would  it  ease  you  of  your 

Pain 

To  know  the  tangled  Threads  of  Revenue, 
I  ravel  deeper  in  a  hopeless  Skein? 

"Who  hath  not  Prudence" — what  was   it  I 

said, 
Of  Her  who  paints  her  Eyes  and  tires  Her 

Head, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  201 

And  gibes    and    mocks  the    People  in  the 

Street, 

And  fawns    upon    them    for    Her    thriftless 
Bread  ? 

Accursed  is  She  of  Eve's  daughters — She 
Hath  cast  off  Prudence,  and  Her  End  shall  be 
Destruction  .  .  .  Brethren,  of  your  Bounty 

grant 
Some  portion  of  your  daily  Bread  to  Me. 


LA  NUIT  BLANCHE 

A  much-discerning  Public  hold 
The    Singer   generally   sings 
Of  personal  and  private  things, 

And  prints  and  sells  his  past  for  gold. 

Whatever  I  may  here  disclaim, 
The  very  clever  folk  I  sing  to 
Will  most  indubitably  cling  to 

Their  pet  delusion,  just  the  same. 

I  HAD  seen,  as  dawn  was  breaking 

And  I  staggered  to  my  rest, 
Tari  Devi  softly  shaking 

From  the  Cart  Road  to  the  crest. 
I  had  seen  the  spurs  of  Jakko 

Heave  and  quiver,  swell  and  sink. 
Was  it  Earthquake  or  tobacco, 

Day  of  Doom  or  Night  of  Drink  ? 

In  the  full,  fresh,  fragrant  morning 

I  observed  a  camel  crawl, 
Laws  of  gravitation  scorning, 

On  the  ceiling  and  the  wall ; 
Then  I  watched  a  fender  walking, 

And  I  heard  grey  leeches  sing, 
And  a  red-hot  monkey  talking 

Did  not  seem  the  proper  thing. 
202 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  203 

Then  a  Creature,  skinned  and  crimson, 

Ran  about  the  floor  and  cried, 
And  they  said  I  had  the  "jims"  on, 

And  they  dosed  me  with  bromide, 
And  they  locked  me  in  my  bedroom — 

Me  and  one  wee  Blood  Red  Mouse  — 
Though  I  said :  "To  give  my  head  room 

"You  had  best  unroof  the  house." 


But  my  words  were  all  unheeded, 

Though  I  told  the  grave  M.  D. 
That  the  treatment  really  needed 

Was  a  dip  in  open  sea 
That  was  lapping  just  below  me, 

Smooth  as  silver,  white  as  snow, 
And  it  took  three  men  to  throw  me 

When  I  found  I  could  not  go. 


Half  the  night  I  watched  the  Heavens 

Fizz  like  '81  champagne — 
Fly  to  sixes  and  to  sevens, 

Wheel  and  thunder  back  again; 
And  when  all  was  peace  and  order 

Save  one  planet  nailed  askew, 
Much  I  wept  because  my  warder 

Would  not  let  me  set  it  true. 


204  POEMS,  BALLADS 

After  frenzied  hours  of  waiting, 

When  the  Earth  and  Skies  were  dumb, 
Pealed  an  awful  voice  dictating 

An  interminable  sum, 
Changing  to  a  tangled  story — 

"What  she  said  you  said  I  said" — • 
Till  the  Moon  arose  in  glory, 

And  I  found  her  ...  in  my  head ; 


Then  a  Face  came,  blind  anJ  weeping, 

And  It  couldn't  wipe  It's  eyes, 
And  It  muttered  I  was  keeping 

Back  the  moonlight  from  the  skies; 
So  I  patted  It  for  pity, 

But  It  whistled  shrill  with  wrath, 
And  a  huge  black  Devil  City 

Poured  its  peoples  on  my  path. 


So  I  fled  with  steps  uncertain 

On  a  thousand-year  long  race, 
But  the  bellying  of  the  curtain 

Kept  me  always  in  one  place; 
While  the  tumult  rose  and  maddened 

To  the  roar  of  Earth  on  fire, 
Ere  it  ebbed  and  sank  and  saddened 

To  a  whisper  tense  as  wire. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  205 

In  tolerable  stillness 

Rose  one  little,  little  star, 
And  it  chuckled  at  my  illness, 

And  it  mocked  me  from  afar; 
And  its  brethren  came  and  eyed  me, 

Called  the  Universe  to  aid, 
Till  I  lay,  with  naught  to  hide  me, 

'Neath  the  Scorn  of  All  Things  Made. 

Dun  and  saffron,  robed  and  splendid, 

Broke  the  solemn,  pitying  Day, 
And  I  knew  my  pains  were  ended, 

And  I  turned  and  tried  to  pray; 
But  my  speech  was  shattered  wholly, 

And  I  v/ept  as  children  weep, 
Till  the  dawn-wind,  softly,  slowly, 

Brought  to  burning  eyelids  sleep. 


MY  RIVAL 

I  GO  to  concert,  party,  ball — > 

What  profit  is  in  these  ? 
I  sit  alone  against  the  wall 

And  strive  to  look  at  ease. 
The  incense  that  is  mine  by  right 

They  burn  before  Her  shrine; 
And  that's  because  I'm  seventeen 

And  She  is  forty-nine. 

I  cannot  check  my  girlish  blush, 

My  color  comes  and  goes; 
I  redden  to  my  finger-tips, 

And  sometimes  to  my  nose. 
But  She  is  white  where  white  should  be, 

And  red  where  red  should  shine. 
The  blush  that  flies  at  seventeen 

Is  fixed  at  forty-nine. 

I  wish  /  had  Her  constant  cheek : 

I  wish  that  I  could  sing 
All  sorts  of  funny  little  songs, 

Not  quite  the  proper  thing. 
206 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  207 

I'm  very  gauche  and  very  shy, 

Her  jokes  aren't  in  my  line; 
And,  worst  of  all,  I'm  seventeen 

While  She  is  forty-nine. 

The  young  men  come,  the  young  men  go 

Each  pink  and  white  and  neat, 
She's  older  than  their  mothers,  but 

They  grovel  at  Her  feet. 
They  walk  beside  Her  'rickshaw  wheels — • 

None  ever  walk  by  mine; 
And  that's  because  I'm  seventeen 

And  She  is  forty-nine. 

She  rides  with  half  a  dozen  men, 

(She  calls  them  "boys"  and  "mashers") 
I  trot  along  the  Mall  alone; 

My  prettiest  frocks  and  sashes 
Don't  help  to  fill  my  programme-card, 

And  vainly  I  repine 
From  ten  to  two  A.  M.    Ah  me ! 

Would  I  were  forty-nine! 

She  calls  me  "darling,"  "pet,"  and  "dear," 

And  "sweet  retiring  maid." 
I'm  always  at  the  back,  I  know, 

She  puts  me  in  the  shade. 


208  POEMS,  BALLADS 

She  introduces  me  to  men, 

"Cast"  lovers,  I  opine, 
For  sixty  takes  to  seventeen, 

Nineteen  to  forty-nine. 

But  even  She  must  older  grow 

And  end  Her  dancing  days, 
She  can't  go  on  forever  so 

At  concerts,  balls,  and  plays. 
One  ray  of  priceless  hope  I  see 

Before  my  footsteps  shine; 
Just  think,  that  She'll  be  eighty-one 

When  I  am  forty-nine. 


THE  LOVERS'  LITANY 

EYES  of  grey — a  sodden  quay, 

Driving  rain  and  falling  tears, 

As  the  steamer  wears  to  sea 

In  a  parting  storm  of  cheers. 

Sing,  for  Faith  and  Hope  are  high—* 
None  so  true  as  you  and  I — 
Sing  the  Lovers'  Litany : 
"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!'9 

Eyes  of  black — a  throbbing  keel, 
Milky  foam  to  left  and  right ; 
Whispered  converse  near  the  wheel 
In  the  brilliant  tropic  night. 

Cross  that  rules  the  Southern  Sky! 

Stars  that  sweep  and  wheel  and  fly, 

Hear  the  Lovers'  Litany : 

"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!" 

Eyes  of  brown — a  dusty  plain 
Split  and  parched  with  heat  of  June, 
Flying  hoof  and  tightened  rein, 
Hearts  that  beat  the  old,  old  tune. 
209 


2io  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Side  by  side  the  horses  fly, 
Frame  we  now  the  old  reply 
Of  the  Lovers'  Litany : 
"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!" 

Eyes  of  blue — the  Simla  Hills 
Silvered  with  the  moonlight  hoar ; 
Pleading  of  the  waltz  that  thrills, 
Dies  and  echoes  round  Benmore. 
"Mabel,"  "Oncers,"  "Good-bye," 
Glamour,  wine,  and  witchery — 
On  my  soul's  sincerity, 
"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!" 

Maidens,  of  your  charity, 

Pity  my  most  luckless  state. 

Four  times  Cupid's  debtor  I — 

Bankrupt  in  quadruplicate. 
Yet,  despite  this  evil  case, 
And  a  maiden  showed  me  grace, 
Four-and- forty  times  would  I 
Sing  the  Lovers'  Litany : 
"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!" 


A  BALLAD  OF  BURIAL 
("Saint  Prazed's  ever  was  the  Church  for  peace") 

IF  down  here  I  chance  to  die, 

Solemnly  I  beg  you  take 
All  that  is  left  of  "I" 

To  the  Hills  for  old  sake's  sake. 
Pack  me  very  thoroughly 

In  the  ice  that  used  to  slake 
Pegs  I  drank  when  I  was  dry — 

This  observe  for  old  sake's  sake. 

To  the  railway  station  hie, 

There  a  single  ticket  take 
For  Umballa— goods-train — I 

Shall  not  mind  delay  or  shake. 
I  shall  rest  contentedly 

Spite  of  clamor  coolies  make; 
Thus  in  state  and  dignity 

Send  me  up  for  old  sake's  sake. 

Next  the  sleepy  Babu  wake, 

Book  a  Kalka  van  "for  four." 
Few,  I  think,  will  care  to  make 

Journeys  with  me  any  more 

211 


212  POEMS,  BALLADS 

As  they  used  to  do  of  yore. 

I  shall  need  a  "special"  break — * 
Thing  I  never  took  before— 

Get  me  one  for  old  sake's  sake. 

After  that — arrangements  make. 

No  hotel  will  take  me  in, 
And  a  bullock's  back  would  break 

'Neath  the  teak  and  leaden  skin. 
Tonga  ropes  are  frail  and  thin, 

Or,  did  I  a  back-seat  take, 
In  a  tonga  I  might  spin, — 

Do  your  best  for  old  sake's  sake. 

After  that — your  work  is  done. 

Recollect  a  Padre  must 
Mourn  the  dear  departed  one — •• 

Throw  the  ashes  and  the  dust 
Don't  go  down  at  once.    I  trust 

You  will  find  excuse  to  "snake 
Three  days'  casual  on  the  bust," 

Get  your  fun  for  old  sake's  sake. 

I  could  never  stand  the  Plains. 

Think  of  blazing  June  and  May 
Think  of  thoie  September  rains 

Yearly  till  the  Judgment  Day ! 
I  should  never  rest  in  peace, 

I  should  sweat  and  lie  awake. 
Rail  me  then,  on  my  decease, 

To  the  Hills  for  old  sake's  sake. 


DIVIDED   DESTINIES 

IT  was  an  artless  Bandar,  and  he  danced  upon 

a  pine, 
And  much    I    wondered  how    he  lived,  and 

where  the  beast  might  dine. 
And  many,  many  other  things,  till,  o'er  my 

morning  smoke, 
I  slept  the  sleep  of  idleness  and  dreamt  that 

Bandar  spoke. 

He    said:     "O   man    of    many    clothes!    Sad 

crawler  on  the  Hills ! 
Observe,  I  know  not  Ranken's  shop,  nor  Ran- 

ken's  monthly  bills; 
I  take  no  heed  to  trousers  or  the  coats  that 

you  call  dress; 
Nor  am  I  plagued  with  little  cards  for  little 

drinks  at  Mess. 

"I  steal  the  bunnia's  grain  at  morn,  at  noon 

and  eventide, 
(For  he  is  fat  and  I  am  spare),  I  roam  the 

mountain  side, 


214  POEMS,  BALLADS 

I  follow  no  man's  carriage,  and  no,  never  in 
my  life 

Have  I  flirted  at  Peliti's  with  another  Ban- 
dar's wife. 

"O  man  of  futile  fopperies — unnecessary 
wraps ; 

I  own  no  ponies  in  the  hills,  I  drive  no  tall- 
wheeled  traps; 

I  buy  me  not  twelve-button  gloves,  'short- 
sixes'  eke,  or  rings, 

Nor  do  I  wast  at  Hamilton's  my  wealth  on 
'pretty  things.' 

"I  quarrel  with  my  wife  at  home,  we  never 
fight  abroad; 

But  Mrs.  B.  has  grasped  the  fact  that  I  am  her 
only  lord. 

I  never  heard  of  fever — dumps  nor  debts  de- 
press my  soul; 

And  I  pity  and  despise  you!"  Here  he 
pouched  my  breakfast-roll. 

His  hide  was  very  mangy,  and  his  face  was 

very  red, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  scratched  with  energy 

his  head. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  215 

His  manners  were  not  always  nice,  but  how 
my  spirit  cried 

To  be  an  artless  Bandar  loose  upon  the  moun- 
tain side! 

So  I  answered :  "Gentle  Bandar,  an  inscrutable 

Decree 
Makes  thee  a  gleesome  fleasome  Thou,  and  me 

a  wretched  Me. 
Go!  Depart  in  peace,  my  brother,  to  thy  home 

amid  the  pine; 
Yet  forget  not  once  a  mortal  wished  to  change 

his  lot  with  thine." 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PLENTY 

ARGUMENT. — The  Indian  Government,  being  mindei. 
to  discover  the  economic  condition  of  their  lands,  sent 
a  Committee  to  inquire  into  it;  and  saw  that  it  was 
good. 

SCENE. — The  wooded  heights  of  Simla.  The 
Incarnation  of  the  Government  of  India  in 
the  raiment  of  the  Angel  of  Plenty  sings,  to 
pianoforte  accompaniment: 

"How  sweet  is  the  shepherd's  sweet  life! 

From  the  dawn  to  the  even  he  strays — 
He  shall  follow  his  sheep  all  the  day, 

And  his  tongue  shall  be  filled  with  praise. 

(Adagio  dim.}  Filled  with  praise!" 

(Largendo  con  sp.)  Now  this  is  the  position. 
Go  make  an  inquisition 
Into  their  real  condition 
As  swiftly  as  ye  may. 

(/».)  Ay,  paint  our  swarthy  billions 
The  richest  of  vermilions 
Ere  two  well-led  cotillions 

Have  danced  themselves  away. 
216 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  217 

TURKISH  PATROL,  as  able  and  intelligent  In- 
vestigators wind  down  the  Himalayas: 

What  is  the  state  of  the  Nation?  What  is  its 

occupation  ? 
Hi!  get  along,  get  along,  get  along — lend  us 

the  information! 

(Dim.)  Census  the  byle  and   the  yabu — cap- 
ture a  first-class  Babu, 
Set  him  to  cut  Gazetteers — Gazetteers  .  .  . 
(ff.)  What  is  the  state  of  the  Nation,  etc., 
etc. 

INTERLUDE,  from  Nowhere  in  Particular,  to 
stringed  and  Oriental  instruments. 

Our  cattle  reel  beneath  the  yoke  they  bear — 
The  earth  is  iron,  and  the  skies  are  brass — - 
And  faint  with  fervor  of  the  flaming  air 
The  languid  hours  pass. 

The  well  is  dry  beneath  the  village  tree — 

The  young  wheat  withers  ere  it  reach  a  span. 
And  belts  of  blinding  sand  show  cruelly 
Where  once  the  river  ran. 


218  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Pray,  brothers,  pray,  but  to  no  earthly  King — 

Lift  up  your  hands  above  the  blighted  grain, 

Look  westward — if  they  please,  the  Gods  shall 

bring 
Their  mercy  with  the  rain. 

Look    westward — bears    the    blue    no   brown 

cloudbank  ? 
Nay,   it   is   written — wherefore   should   we 

fly? 

On  our  own  field  and  by  our  cattle's  flank 
Lie  down,  lie  down  to  die ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

By  the  plumed  heads  of  Kings 

Waving  high, 
Where  the  tall  corn  springs 

O'er  the  dead. 

If  they  rust  or  rot  we  die, 
If  they  ripen  we  are  fed. 
Very  mighty  is  the  power  of  our  Kings ! 

Triumphal  return  to  Simla  of  the  Investigat- 
ors, attired  after  the  manner  of  Dionysus, 
leading  a  pet  tiger-cub  in  wreaths  of  rhubarb 
leaves,  symbolical  of  India  under  medical 
treatment.  They  sing: 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  219 

We  have  seen,  we  have  written — behold  it,  the 

proof  of  our  manifold  toil! 
In  their  hosts  they  assembled  and  told  it — the 

tale  of  the  sons  of  the  soil. 
We  have  said  of  the  Sickness,  "Where  is  it?" 

— and  of  Death,  "It  is  far  from  our  ken ;" 
We  have  paid  a  particular  visit  to  the  affluent 

children  of  men. 
We  have  trodden  the  mart  and  the  well-curb — 

we  have  trooped  to  the  bield  and  the  byre ; 
And  the  King  may  the  forces  of  Hell  curb,  for 

the  People  have  all  they  desire  I 


Castanets  and  step-dance: 
Oh,  the  dom  and  the  mag  and  the  thakur  and 
the  thag, 

And  the  nat  and  the  brinjaree 
And  the  bunnia  and  the  ryot  are  as  happy  and 
as  quiet 

And  as  plump  as  they  can  be! 
Yes,  the  join  and  the  jat  in  his  stucco-fronted 
hut, 

And  the  bounding  bazugar, 
By  the  favor  of  the  King  are  as  fat  as  any- 
thing, 

They  are — they  are — they  are ! 


220  POEMS,  BALLADS 

RECITATIVE,  Government  of  India,  with  white 
satin  wings  and  electroplated  harp: 

How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains — in  peace 
reclining, 

Thus  to  be  assured  that  our  people  are  unani- 
mously dining. 

And  though  there  are  places  not  so  blessed  as 
others  in  natural  advantages,  which,  after 
all,  was  only  to  be  expected, 

Proud  and  glad  are  we  to  congratulate  you 
upon  the  work  you  have  thus  ably  effected. 

(Cres.)     How  be-ewtiful  upon  the  mountains! 

HIRED  BAND,  brasses  only,  full  chorus: 

God  bless  the  Squire 
And  all  his  rich  relations 
Who  teach  us  poor  people 
We  eat  our  proper  rations — 

We  eat  our  proper  rations, 

In  spite  of  inundations, 

Malarial  exhalations, 

And  casual  starvations, 
We  have,  we  have,  they  say  we  have— • 
We  have  our  proper  rations ! 

{Cornet.) 

Which  nobody  can  deny! 
If  he  does  he  tells  a  lie—* 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  221 

We  are  all  as  willing  as  Barkis — 
We  all  of  us  loves  the  Markiss — 
We  all  of  us  stuffs  our  ca-ar-kis — 
With  food  until  we  die!      (Da  capo.)  . 

CHORUS  OF  THE  CRYSTALLIZED  FACTS. 

Before  the  beginning  of  years 
There  came  to  the  rule  of  the  State 
Men  with  a  pair  of  shears, 
Men  with  an  Estimate — 
Strachey  with  Muir  for  leaven, 
Lytton  with  locks  that  fell, 
Ripon  fooling  with  Heaven, 
And  Temple  riding  like  H-ll ! 
And  the  bigots  took  in  hand 
Cess  and  the  falling  rain, 
And  the  measure  of  sifted  sand 
The  dealer  puts  in  the  grain — 
Imports  by  land  and  sea, 
To  uttermost  decimal  worth, 
And  registration — free — 
In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth: 
And  fashioned  with  pens  and  paper, 
And  fashioned  in  black  and  white, 
With  Life  for  a  flickering  taper 
And  Death  for  a  blazing  light — • 


222  POEMS,  BALLADS 

With  the  Armed  and  the  Civil  Power, 
That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span, 
From  Adam's  Bridge  to  Peshawur, 
The  Much  Administered  man. 


In  the  towns  of  the  North  and  the  East, 

They  gathered  as  unto  rule, 

They  bade  him  starve  the  priest 

And  send  his  children  to  school. 

Railways  and  roads  they  wrought, 

For  the  needs  of  the  soil  within; 

A  time  to  squabble  in  court, 

A  time  to  bear  and  to  grin. 

And  gave  him  peace  in  his  ways, 

Jails — and  Police  to  fight, 

Justice  at  length  of  days, 

And  Right — and  Might  in  the  Right 

His  speech  is  of  mortgaged  bedding, 

On  his  kine  he  borrows  yet, 

At  his  heart  is  his  daughter's  wedding, 

In  his  eye  foreknowledge  of  debt. 

He  eats  and  hath  indigestion, 

He  toils  and  he  may  not  stop; 

His  life  is  a  long-drawn  question 

Between  a  crop  and  a  crop. 


THE  MARE'S  NEST 

JANE  Austen  Beecher  Stowe  de  Rouse 
Was  good  beyond  all  earthly  need; 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  her  spouse 
Was  very,  very  bad  indeed. 

He  smoked  cigars,  called  churches  slow. 

And  raced — but  this  she  did  not  know. 


For  Belial  Machia ,  elli  kept 
The  little  fact  a  secret,  and, 

Though  o'er  his  minor  sins  she  wept, 
Jane  Austen  did  not  understand 

That  Lilly — thirteen-two  and  bay — 

Absorbed  one  half  her  husband's  pay. 


She  was  so  good,  she  made  him  worse ; 

(Some  women  are  like  this,  I  think;) 
He  taught  her  parrot  how  to  curse, 

Her  Assam  monkey  how  to  drink. 
He  vexed  her  righteous  soul  until 
She  went  up,  and  he  went  down  hill. 
223 


224  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Then  came  the  crisis,  strange  to  say, 
Which  turned  a  good  wife  to  a  better. 

A  telegraphic  peon,  one  day, 

Brought  her — now,  had  it  been  a  letter 

For  Belial  Machiavelli,  I 

Know  Jane  would  just  have  let  it  lie. 

But  'twas  a  telegram  instead, 

Marked  "urgent,"  and  her  duty  plain 

To  open  it.    Jane  Austen  read: 
"Your  Lilly's  got  a  cough  again. 

Can't  understand  why  she  is  kept 

At  your  expense."    Jane  Austen  wept 

It  was  a  misdirected  wire. 

Her  husband  was  at  Shaitanpore. 
She  spread  her  anger,  hot  as  fire, 

Through  six  thin  foreign  sheets  or  more, 
Sent  off  that  letter,  wrote  another 
To  her  solicitor — and  mother. 

Then  Belial  Machiavelli  saw 
Her  error  and,  I  trust,  his  own, 

Wired  to  the  minion  of  the  Law, 
And  traveled  wifeward — not  alone. 

For  Lilly — thirteen-two  and  bay — 

Came  in  a  horse-box  all  the  way. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  225 

There  was  a  scene — a  weep  or  two—- 
With many  kisses.     Austen  Jane 

Rode  Lilly  all  the  season  through, 
And  never  opened  wires  again. 

She  races  now  with  Belial.    This 

Is  very  sad,  but  so  it  is. 


POSSIBILITIES 

AY,  lay  him  'neath  the  Simla  pine — > 
A  fortnight  fully  to  be  missed, 
Behold,  we  lose  our  fourth  at  whist, 

A  chair  is  vacant  where  we  dine. 

His  place  forgets  him;  other  men 

Have  bought  his  ponies,  guns,  and  traps. 
His  fortune  is  the  Great  Perhaps 

And  that  cool  rest-house  down  the  glen, 

Whence  he  shall    tear,  as  spirits  may, 
Our  mundane  revel  on  the  height, 
Shall  watch  eac1    flashing  'rickshaw-light 

Sweep  on  to  dinner,  dance,  and  play. 

Benmore  shall  woo  him  to  the  ball 

With  lighted  rooms  and  braying  band, 
And  he  shall  hear  and  understand 

"Dream  Faces"  better  than  us  all. 

For,  think  you,  as  the  vapors  flee 
Across  Sanjaolie  after  rain, 
His  soul  may  climb  the  hill  again 

To  each  old  field  of  victory. 
226 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  227 

Unseen,  who  women  held  so  dear, 

The  strong  man's  yearning  to  his  kind 
Shall  shake  at  most  the  window-blind, 

Or  dull  awhile  the  card-room's  cheer. 


In  his  own  place  of  power  unknown, 
His  Light  o'  Love  another's  flame, 
His  dearest  pony  galloped  lame, 

And  he  an  alien  and  alone. 


Yet  may  he  meet  with  many  a  friend — 
Shrewd  shadows,  lingering  long  unseen 
Among  us  when  "God  save  the  Queen" 

Shows  even  "extras"  have  an  end. 


And,  when  we  leave  the  heated  room, 
And,  when  at  four  the  lights  expire, 
The  crew  shall  gather  round  the  fire 

And  mock  our  laughter  in  the  gloom. 


Talk  as  we  talked,  and  they  ere  death — 
First  wanly,  dance  in  ghostly  wise, 
With  ghosts  of  tunes  for  melodies, 

And  vanish  at  the  morning's  breath. 


CHRISTMAS  IN  INDIA 

DIM  dawn  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sky  is 

saffron-yellow — 

As  the  women  in  the  village  grind  the  corn, 
And  the  parrots  seek  the  riverside,  each  calling 

to  his  fellow 
That  the  Day,  the  staring  Eastern  Day  is 

born. 
Oh  the  white  dust  on  the  highway!     Oh 

the  stenches  in  the  byway ! 
Oh  the  clammy  fog  that  hovers  over 

earth ! 

And    at    Home    they're    making    merry 
'neath  the  white  and  scarlet  berry — 
What  part  have  India's  exiles  in  their 
mirth  ? 

Full  day  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sky  is  blue 

and  staring — 

As  the  cattle  crawl  afield  beneath  the  yoke, 
And  they  bear  One  o'er  the  field-path,  who  is 

past  all  hope  or  caring, 
To  the  ghat  below  the  curling  wreaths  of 

smoke. 

Call  on  Rama,  going  slowly,  as  ye  bear  a 
brother  lowly — 
228 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  229 

Call  on  Rama — he  may  hear,  perhaps, 

your  voice! 
With  our  hymn-books,  and  our  psalters 

we  appeal  to  other  altars, 
And   to-day   we   bid   "good    Christian 

men  rejoice  1" 

High  noon  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sun  is 

hot  above  us — 
As  at  Home  the  Christmas  Day  is  breaking 

wan. 
They  will  drink  our  healths  at  dinner — those 

who  tell  us  how  they  love  us, 
And  forget  us  till  another  year  be  gone ! 
Oh  the  toil  that  knows  no  breaking!    Oh 

the  Heimweh,  ceaseless,  aching! 
Oh  the  black  dividing  Sea  and  alien 

Plain! 
Youth  was  cheap — wherefore  we  sold  it. 

Gold  was  good — we  hoped  to  hold  it, 
And  to-day  we  know  the  fulness  of  our 
gain. 

Grey  dusk  behind  the  tamarisks — the  parrots 

fly  together — • 

As  the  sun  is  sinking  slowly  over  Home; 
And  his  last  ray  seems  to  mock  us  shackled  in 

a  lifelong  tether 
That  drags  us  back  howe-er  so  far  we  roam. 


230  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Hard  her  service,  poor  her  payment — she 

in  ancient,  tattered  raiment — 
India,  she  the  grim  Stepmother  of  our 

kind. 
If  a  year  of  life  be  lent  her,  if  her  temple's 

shrine  we  enter, 

The  door  is  shut — we  may  not  look  be- 
hind. 


Black  night  behind  the  tamarisks — the  owls 

begin  their  chorus — 
As  the  conches  from  the  temple  scream  and 

bray. 
With  the  fruitless  years  behind  us,  and  the 

hopeless  years  before  us, 
Let  us  honor,   O   my  brothers,   Christmas 

Day! 
Call  a  truce,  then,  to  our  labors — let  us 

feast  with  friends  and  neighbors, 
And  be  merry  as  the  custom  of  our 

caste ; 
For  if  "faint  and  forced  the  laughter," 

and  if  sadness  follow  after, 
We  are  richer  by  one  mocking  Christ- 
mas past. 


PAGETT,  M.P. 

The  toad  beneath  the  harrow  knows 
Exactly  where  each  tooth-point  goes. 
The  butterfly  upon  the  road 
Preaches  contentment  to  that  toad, 

PAGETT,  M.P.,  was  a  liar,  and  a  fluent  liar 

therewith, — 
He  spoke  of  the  heat  of  India  as  the  "Asian 

Solar  Myth;" 
Came  on  a  four  months'  visit,  to  "study  the 

East,"  in  November, 
And  I  got  him  to  sign  an  agreement  vowing  to 

stay  till  September. 

March  came  in  with  the  koil.    Pagett  was  cool 

and  gay, 
Called  me  a  "bloated  Brahmin,"  talked  of  my 

"princely  pay." 
March  went  out  with  the  roses.     "Where  is 

your  heat?"  said  he. 
"Coming,"  said  I  to  Pagett.     "Skittles!"  said 

Pagett,  M.P. 

April   began   with   the   punkah,   coolies,   and 

prickly-heat, — 
Pagett  was  dear  to  mosquitoes,  sandflies  found 

him  a  treat. 

231 


232  POEMS,  BALLADS 

He  grew  speckled  and  lumpy — hammered,  I 

grieve  to  say, 
Aryan  brothers  who  fanned  him,  in  an  illiberal 

way. 

May  set  in  with  a  dust-storm, — Pagett  went 
down  with  the  sun. 

All  the  delights  of  the  season  tickled  him  one 
by  one. 

Imprimis — ten  days'  "liver" — due  to  his  drink- 
ing beer ; 

Later,  a  dose  of  fever — slight,  but  he  called  it 
severe. 

Dysent'ry  touched  him  in  June,  after  the  Chota 

Bur  sat — 
Lowered  his  portly  person — made  him  yearn 

to  depart. 
He  didn't  call  me  a  "Brahmin,"  or  "bloated," 

or  "overpaid," 
But  seemed  to  think  it  a  wonder  that  any  one 

stayed. 

July  was  a  trifle  unhealthy, — Pagett  was  ill 

with  fear, 
'Called  it  the  "Cholera  Morbus,"  hinted  that 

life  was  dear. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  233 

He  babbled  of  "Eastern  exile,"  and  mentioned 

his  home  with  tears ; 
But  I  hadn't  seen  my  children  for  close  upon 

seven  years. 

We  reached  a  hundred  and  twenty  once  in  the 

Court  at  noon, 
(I've  mentioned    Pagett   was   portly)    Pagett 

went  off  in  a  swoon. 
That  was  an  end  to  the  business;  Pagett,  the 

perjured,  fled 
With  a  practical,  working  knowledge  of  "Solar 

Myths"  in  his  head. 

And  I  laughed  as  I  drove  from  the  station,  but 

the  mirth  died  out  on  my  lips 
As  I  thought  of  the  fools  like  Pagett  who  write 

of  their  "Eastern  trips," 
And  the  sneers  of  the  traveled  idiots  who  duly 

misgovern  the  land, 
And  I  prayed  to  the  Lord  to  deliver  another 

one  into  my  hand. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOMEN 

(Lady    Dufferin's   Fund   for    medical    aid    to    tht 
Women  of  India) 

How  shall  she  know  the  worship  we  would  do 

her? 

The  walls  are  high,  and  she  is  very  far. 
How  shall  the  women's  message  reach  unto 

her 

Above  the  tumult  of  the  packed  bazaar? 
Free  wind  of  March,  against  the  lattice 

blowing, 

Bear  thou  our  thanks,  lest  she  depart  un- 
knowing. 

Go  forth  across  the  fields  we  may  not  roam  in, 

Go  forth  beyond  the  trees  that  rim  the  city, 
To  whatsoe'er  fair  place  she  hath  her  home  in, 
Who  dowered  us  with  wealth  of  love  and 

pity. 
Out  of  our  shadow  pass,  and  seek  her 

singing— 

"I  have  no  gifts  but  Love  alone  for  bring- 
ing." 

234 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  235 

Say  that  we  be  a  feeble  folk  who  greet  her, 
But  old  in  grief,  and  very  wise  in  tears ; 
Say  that  we,  being  desolate,  entreat  her 
That  she  forget  its  not  in  after  years ; 
For  we  have  seen  the  light,  and  it  were 

greviotis 
To  dim  that  dawning  if  our  lady  leave  us. 

By  life  that  ebbed  with  none  to  stanch  the  fail- 
ing 
By    Love's    sad    harvest    garnered    in    the 

spring, 

When  Love  in  ignorance  wept  unavailing 
O'er  young  buds  dead  before  their  blossom- 
ing; 
By  all  the  grey  owl  watched,  the  pale 

moon  viewed, 
In  past  grim  years,  declare  our  gratitude ! 

By  hands  uplifted  to  the  Gods  that  heard  not, 
By  gifts  that  found  no  favor  in  their  sight, 
By  faces  bent  above  the  babe  that  stirred  not, 
By  nameless  horrors  of  the  stifling  night ; 
By  ills  foredone,  by  peace  her  toils  dis- 
cover, 

Bid  Earth  be  good  beneath  and  Heaven 
above  herl 


236  POEMS,  BALLADS 

If  she  have  sent  her  servants  in  our  pain, 
If  she  have  fought  with  Death  and  dulled  his 

sword ; 
If  she  have  given  back  our  sick  again, 

And  to  the  breast  the  weakling  lips  restored, 
Is  it  a  little  thing  that  she  has  wrought  ? 
Then  Life  and  Death  and  Motherhood  be 
nought. 

Go  forth,  O  wind,  our  message  on  thy  wings, 
And  they  shall  hear  thee  pass  and  bid  thee 

speed, 
In  reed-roofed  hut,  or  white-walled  home  of 

kings, 

Who  have  been  helpen  by  her  in  their  need. 
All  spring  shall  give  thee  fragrance,  and 

the  wheat 
Shall  be  a  tasselled  floorcloth  to  thy  feet. 

Haste,  for  our  hearts  are  with  thee,  take  no 

rest! 

Loud-voiced  ambassador,  from  sea  to  sea 
Proclaim  the  blessing,  manifold,  confessed, 
*)f  those  in  darkness  by  her  hand  set  free, 
Then  very  softly  to  her  presence  move, 
And  whisper:  "Lady,  lo,  they  know  and 
love!" 


A  BALLADE  OF  JAKKO  HILL 

ONE  moment  bid  the  horses  wait, 

Since  tiffin  is  not  laid  till  three, 
Below  the  upward  path  and  straight 

You  climbed  a  year  ago  with  me. 
Love  came  upon  us  suddenly 

And  loosed — an  idle  hour  to  kill— 
A  headless,  armless  armory 

That  smote  us  both  on  Jakko  Hill. 

Ah  Heaven !  we  would  wait  and  wait 

Through  Time  and  to  Eternity! 
Ah  Heaven !  we  could  conquer  Fate 

With  more  than  Godlike  constancy! 
I  cut  the  date  upon  a  tree — 

Here  stand  the  clumsy  figures  still: 
"107-85,  A.D." 

Damp  with  the  mist  on  Jakko  Hill. 

What  came  of  high  resolve  and  great, 

And  until  Death  fidelity! 
Whose  horse  is  waiting  at  your  gate? 

Whose  'rickshaw- wheels  ride  over  me? 

237 


238  POEMS,  BALLADS 

No  Saint's,  I  swear ;  and — let  me  see 

To-night    what    names    your    programme 
fill— 

We  drift  asunder  merrily, 

As  drifts  the  mist  on  Jakko  Hill! 

I/ENVOI. 
Princess,  behold  our  ancient  state 

Has  clean  departed;  and  we  see 
'Twas  Idleness  we  took  for  Fate 

That  bound  light  bonds  on  you  and  me. 
Amen!    Here  ends  the  comedy 

Where  it  began  in  all  good  will; 
Since  Love  and  Leave  together  flee 

As  driven  mist  on  Jakko  HilL 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  SIMLA  DANCERS 

Too  late,  alas!  the  song 
To  remedy  the  wrong; — 

The  rooms  are  taken  from  us,  swept  and  garnished  for 
their  fate. 

But  these  tear-besprinkled  pages 
Shall  attest  to  future  ages 

That  we  cried  against  the  crime  of  it — too  late,  alas ! 
too  late! 

"WHAT    have    we    ever    done   to    bear    this 

grudge  ?" 

Was  there  no  room  save  only  in  Benmore 
For  docket,  duftar,  and  for  office  drudge, 
That    you    usurp    our    smoothest    dancing 

floor? 
Must  babus  do  their  work  on  polished  teak? 

Are  ball-rooms  fittest  for  the  ink  you  spill? 
Was  there  no  other  cheaper  house  to  seek? 
You  might  have  left  them  all  at  Strawberry 
Hill. 

We  never  harmed  you!     Innocent  our  guise, 
Dainty  our  shining  feet,  our  voices  low; 

And  we  revolved  to  divers  melodies, 
And  we  were  happy  but  a  year  ago. 

239 


240  POEMS,  BALLADS 

To-night,  the  moon  that  watched  our  light- 
some wiles — 

That  beamed  upon  us  through  the  deodars — 
Is  wan  with  gazing  on  official  files, 

And  desecrating  desks  disgust  the  stars. 

Nay!  by  the  memory  of  tuneful  nights — 

Nay!  by  the  witchery  of  flying  feet — 
Nay!  by  the  glamour  of  foredone  delights — 

By  all  things  merry,  musical,  and  meet — 
By  wine  that  sparkled,  and  by  sparkling  eyes — 

By     wailing     waltz — by     reckless     gallop's 

strain — 
By  dim  verandas  and  by  soft  replies, 

Give  us  our  ravished  ball-room  back  again! 

Or — hearken  to  the  curse  we  lay  on  you! 
The  ghosts  of  waltzes  shall  perplex  your 

brain, 
And  murmurs  of  past  merriment  pursue 

Your   'wildered   clerks   that  they   indite   in 

vain; 
And  when  you  count  your  poor  Provincial 

millions, 

The  only  figures  that  your  pen  shall  frame 
Shall  be  the  figures  of  dear,  dear  cotillions 
Danced  out  in  tumult  long  before  you  came. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  241 

Yea !  "See  Saw"  shall  upset  your  estimates, 

"Dream  Faces"  shall  your  heavy  heads  be- 
muse, 
Because  your  hand,  unheeding,  desecrates 

Our  temple;  fit  for  higher,  worthier  use. 
And  all  the  long-  verandas,  eloquent 

With  echoes  of  a  score  of  Simla  years, 
Shall  plague  you  with  unbidden  sentiment — 

Babbling  of  kisses,  laughter,  love,  and  tears. 

So  shall  you  mazed  amid  old  memories  stand, 
So    shall    you    toil,    and    shall    accomplish 

nought, 
And  ever  in  your  ears  a  phantom  Band 

Shall  blare  away  the  staid  official  thought. 
Wherefore — and    ere    this    awful    curse    be 

spoken, 

Cast  out  your  swarthy  sacrilegious  train, 
And  give — ere  dancing  cease  and  hearts  be 

broken — 
Give  us  our  ravished  ball-room  back  again! 


BALLAD  OF  FISHER'S  BOARDING- 
HOUSE 

That  night,  when  through  the  mooring-chains 

The  wide-eyed  corpse  rolled  free, 
"To  blunder  down  by  Garden  Reach 

And  rot  at  Kedgeree, 
The  tale  the  Hughli  told  the  shoal 

The  lean  shoal  told  to  me. 

'TWAS  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house 

Where  sailor-men  reside, 
And  there  were  men  of  all  the  ports 

From  Mississip  to  Clyde, 
And  regally  they  spat  and  smoked, 

And  fearsomely  they  lied. 

They  lied  about  the  purple  Sea 

That  gave  them  scanty  bread, 
They  lied  about  the  Earth  beneath, 

The  Heavens  overhead, 
For  they  had  looked  too  often  on 

Black  rum  when  that  was  red. 

They  told  their  tales  of  wreck  and  wrong, 
Of  shame  and  lust  and  fraud, 

They  backed  their  toughest  statements  with 
The  Brimstone  of  the  Lord, 

And  crackling  oaths  went  to  and  fro 
Across  the  fist-banged  board. 
242 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  243 

And  there  was  Hans  the  blue-eyed  Dane, 

Bull-throated,  bare  of  arm, 
Who  carried  on  his  hairy  chest 

The  maid  Ultruda's  charm — 
The  little  silver  crucifix 

That  keeps  a  man  from  harm. 

And  there  was  Jake  Without-the-Ears, 

And  Pamba  the  Malay, 
And  Carboy  Gin  the  Guinea  cook, 

And  Luz  from  Vigo  Bay, 
And  Honest  Jack  who  sold  them  slops 

And  harvested  their  pay. 

And  there  was  Salem  Hardieker, 

A  lean  Bostonian  he — 
Russ,  German,  English,  Half  breed,  Finn, 

Yank,  Dane,  and  Portugee, 
At  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house 

They  rested  from  the  sea. 

Now  Anne  of  Austria  shared  their  drinks, 

Collinga  knew  her  fame, 
From  Tarnau  in  Galicia 

To  Jaun  Bazar  she  came, 
To  eat  the  bread  of  infamy 

And  take  the  wage  of  shame. 


244  POEMS,  BALLADS 

She  held  a  dozen  men  to  heel — 

Rich  spoil  of  war  was  hers, 
In  hose  and  gown  and  ring  and  chain, 

From  twenty  mariners, 
And,  by  Port  Law,  that  week,  men  called 

Her  Salem  Hardieker's. 

But  seamen  learned — what  landsmen  know — 

That  neither  gifts  nor  gain 
Can  hold  a  winking  Light  o'  Love 

Or  Fancy's  flight  restrain, 
When  Anne  of  Austria  rolled  her  eyes 

On  Hans  the  blue-eyed  Dane. 

Since  Life  is  strife,  and  strife  means  knife. 

From  Howrah  to  the  Bay, 
And  he  may  die  before  the  dawn 

Who  liquored  out  the  day, 
In  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house 

We  woo  while  yet  we  may. 

But  cold  was  Hans  the  blue-eyed  Dane, 

Bull-throated,  bare  of  arm, 
And  laughter  shook  the  chest  beneath 

The  maid  Ultruda's  charm — 
The  little  silver  crucifix 

That  keeps  a  man  from  harm. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  245 

"You  speak  to  Salem  Hardieker, 

You  was  his  girl,  I  know. 
I  ship  mineselfs  to-morrow,  see, 

Und  round  the  Skaw  we  go, 
South,  down  the  Cattegat,  by  Hjelm, 

To  Besser  in  Saro." 

When  love  rejected  turns  to  hate, 

All  ill  betide  the  man. 
"You  speak  to  Salem  Hardieker"' — 

She  spoke  as  woman  can. 
A  scream — a  sob — "He  called  me — names!" 

And  then  the  fray  began. 

An  oath  from  Salem  Hardieker, 

A  shriek  upon  the  stairs, 
A  dance  of  shadows  on  the  wall, 

A  knife-thrust  unawares — 
And  Hans  came  down,  as  cattle  drop, 

Across  the  broken  chairs. 


In  Anne  of  Austria's  trembling  hands 

The  weary  head  fell  low : 
"I  ship  mineselfs  to-morrow,  straight 

For  Besser  in  Saro: 
Und  there  Ultruda  comes  to  me 

At  Easter,  und  I  go 


246  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"South,  down  the  Cattegat —    What's  here? 

There — are — no — lights — to — guide !" 
The  mutter  ceased,  the  spirit  passed, 

And  Anne  of  Austria  cried 
In  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house 

When  Hans  the  mighty  died. 

Thus  slew  they  Hans  the  blue-eyed  Dane, 

Bull-throated,  bare  of  arm, 
But  Anne  of  Austria  looted  first 

The  maid  Ultruda's  charm — > 
The  little  silver  crucifix 

That  keeps  a  man  from  harm. 


"AS  THE  BELL  CLINKS" 

As  I  left  the  Halls  at  Lumley,  rose  the  vision 

of  a  comely 
Maid  last  season  worshipped  dumbly,  watched 

with  fervor  from  afar  ; 
And   I   wondered   idly,   blindly,   if   the  maid 

would  greet  me  kindly. 
That  was  all  —  the  rest  was  settled  by  the  clink- 

ing tonga-bar. 
Yea,  my  life  and  hers  were  coupled  by  the 

tonga  coupling-bar. 

For  my  misty  meditation,  at  the  second  chang- 

ing-station, 
Suffered  sudden  dislocation,  fled  before  the 

tuneless  jar 
Of  a  Wagner  obligate,  scherzo,  double-hand 

staccato, 
Played  on  either  pony's  saddle  by  the  clacking 

tonga-bar  — 
Played  with  human  speech,  I  fancied,  by  the 

jigging,  jolting  bar. 


"She  was  sweet,"  thought  I,  "last  season,  but 
'twere  surely  wild  unreason 
247 


248  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Such  tiny  hope  to  freeze  on  as  was  offered  by 

my  Star, 
When  she  whispered,  something  sadly:  'I — 

we  feel  your  going  badly!'  ' 
"And  you  let  the  chance  escape  you?"  rapped 

the  rattling  tonga-bar. 
"What  a  chance  and  what  an  idiot!"  clicked 

the  vicious  tonga-bar. 


Heart  of  man — oh,  heart  of  putty!  Had  I 
gone  by  Kakahutti, 

On  the  old  Hill-road  and  rutty,  I  had  'scaped 
that  fatal  car. 

But  his  fortune  each  must  bide  by,  so  I  watched 
the  milestones  slide  by, 

To  "You  call  on  Her  to-morrow!" — fugue 
with  cymbals  by  the  bar — 

"You  must  call  on  Her  to-morrow!" — post- 
horn  gallop  by  the  bar. 


Yet  a  further  stage  my  goal  on — we  were 
whirling  down  to  Solon, 

With  a  double  lurch  and  roll  on,  best  foot  fore- 
most, ganz  und  gar — 

"She  was  very  sweet,"  I  hinted.  "If  a  kiss  had 
been  imprinted?" — 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  249 

"'Would    ha'    saved    a    world    of    trouble!'' 

clashed  the  busy  tonga-bar. 
"'Been    accepted    or   rejected!"    banged    and 

clanged  the  tonga-bar. 


Then  a  notion  wild  and  daring,  'spite  the  in- 
come tax's  paring, 

And  a  hasty  thought  of  sharing— less  than 
many  incomes  are, 

Made  me  put  a  question  private,  you  can  guess 
what  I  would  drive  at. 

"You  must  work  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  clanked 
the  careless  tonga-bar. 

"Simple  Rule  of  Two  will  prove  it,"  lilted  back 
the  tonga-bar. 


It  was  under  Khyraghaut  I  mused:  "Suppose 

the  maid  be  haughty — 
(There    are    lovers    rich — and    forty) — wait 

some  wealthy  Avatar? 
Answer,   monitor  untiring,   'twixt  the  ponies 

twain  perspiring!" 
"Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,"  creaked  the 

straining  tonga-bar. 
"Can  I  tell  you  ere  you  ask  Her?"  pounded 

slow  the  tonga-bar. 


250  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Last,  the  Tara  Devi  turning  showed  the  lights 
of  Simla  burning, 

Lit  my  little  lazy  yearning  to  a  fiercer  flame  by 
far. 

As  below  the  Mall  we  jingled,  through  my 
very  heart  it  tingled — 

Did  the  iterated  order  of  the  threshing  tonga- 
bar — 

"Try  your  luck — you  can't  do  better!"  twanged 
the  loosened  tonga-bar. 


AN  OLD  SONG 

So  long  as  'neath  the  Kalka  hills 

The  tonga-horn  shall  ring, 
So  long  as  down  the  Solon  dip 

The  hard-held  ponies  swing, 
So  long  as  Tara  Devi  sees 

The  lights  o'  Simla  town, 
So  long  as  Pleasure  calls  us  up, 

And  duty  drives  us  down, 
//  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
What  pair  so  happy  as  we  two? 

So  long  as  Aces  take  the  King, 

Or  backers  take  the  bet, 
So  long  as  debt  leads  men  to  wed, 

Or  marriage  leads  to  debt, 
So  long  as  little  luncheons,  Love, 

And  scandal  hold  their  vogue, 
While  there  is  sport  at  Annandale 
Or  whiskey  at  Jutogh, 

//  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 

What  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  two? 


252  POEMS,  BALLADS 

So  long  as  down  the  rocking  floor 

The  raving  polka  spins, 
So  long  as  Kitchen  Lancers  spur 

The  maddened  violins, 
So  long  as  through  the  whirling  smoke 

We  hear  the  oft-told  tale : 
"Twelve  hundred  in  the  Lotteries," 

And  Whatshername  for  sale  ? 
//  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
We'll  play  the  game  and  win  it  too. 


So  long  as  Lust  or  Lucre  tempt 

Straight  riders  from  the  course, 
So  long  as  with  each  drink  we  pour 

Black  brewage  of  Remorse, 
So  long  as  thos    unloaded  guns 

We  keep  beside  the  bed 
Blow  off,  by  obvious  accident, 

The  lucky  owner's  head, 

//  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
What  can  Life  .H/7  or  Death  undo? 


So  long  as  Death  'twixt  dance  and  dance 

Chills  best  and  bravest  blood, 
And  drops  the  reckless  rider  down 

The  rotten,  rain-soaked  khud, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  253 

So  long  as  rumors  from  the  North 

Make  loving  wives  afraid. 
So  long  as  Burma  takes  the  boy 
And  typhoid  kills  the  maid, 
//  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
What  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  two? 

By  all  that  lights  our  daily  life 

Or  works  our  lifelong  woe, 
From  Boileaugunge  to  Simla  Downs 

And  those  grim  glades  below, 
Where,  heedless  of  the  flying  hoof 

And  clamor  overhead, 
Sleep,  with  the  grey  langur  for  guard, 

Our  very  scornful  Dead, 

If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
All  Earth  is  servant  to  us  two? 

By  Docket,  Billetdoux,  and  File, 

By  Mountain,  Cliff,  and  Fir, 
By  Fan  and  Sword  and  Office-box, 

By  Corset,  Plume,  and  Spur, 
By  Riot,  Revel,  Waltz,  and  War, 

By  Women,  Work,  and  Bill?, 
By  all  the  life  that  fizzes  in 

The  everlasting  Hills, 

//  you  love  me  as  I  love  you 
What  pair  so  happy  as  we  two? 


CERTAIN  MAXIMS  OF  HAFIZ 
i. 

IF  It  be  pleasant  to  look  on,  stalled  in  the 

packed  serai, 
Does  not  the  Young  Man  try  Its  temper  and 

pace  ere  he  buy? 
If  She  be  pleasant  to  look  on,  what  doe*  the 

Young  Man  say? 
"Lo!  She  is  pleasant  to  look  on,  give  Her  to 

me  to-day!" 

n. 

Yea,  though  a  Kafir  die,  to  him  is  remitted 

Jehannum 
If  he  borrowed  in  life  from  a  native  at  sixty 

per  cent,  per  annum. 


in. 


Blister  we  not  for  bursati?    So  when  the  heart 

is  vexed, 
The  pain  of  one  maiden's  refusal  is  drowned 

in  the  pain  of  the  next. 

254 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  255 

IV. 

The  temper  of  chums,  the  love  of  your  wife, 

and  a  new  piano's  tune — 
Which  of  the  three  will  you  trust  at  the  end 

of  an  Indian  June? 

v. 

Who  are  the  rulers  of  Ind — to  whom  shall  we 

bow  the  knee? 
Make  your  peace  with  the  women,  and  men 

will  make  you  L.  G. 


VI. 


Does  the  woodpecker  flit  round  the  young  f cr- 
ash f  Does  grass  clothe  a  new-built  wall  ? 

Is  she  under  thirty,  the  woman  who  holds  a 
boy  in  her  thrall  ? 


vn. 


If  She  grow  suddenly  gracious — reflect.    Is  it 

all  for  thee? 
The  black-buck  is  stalked  through  the  bullock, 

and  Man  through  jealousy. 


256  POEMS,  BALLADS 

VIII. 

Seek  not  for  favor  of  women.     So  shall  you 

find  it  indeed. 
Does  not  the  boar  break  cover  just  when  you're 

lighting  a  weed  ? 

IX. 

If  He  play,  being  young  and   unskilful,   for 

shekels  of  silver  and  gold, 
Take  His  money,  my  sort,  praising  Allah.    The 

kid  was  ordained  to  be  sold. 


x. 


With  a  "weed"  among  men  or  horses  verily 

this  is  the  best, 
That  you  work  him  in  office  or  dog-cart  lightly 

— but  give  him  no  rest. 


XI. 


Pleasant  the  snafHe  of  Courtship,  improving 

the  manners  and  Carriage; 
But  the  colt  who  is  wise  will  abstain  from  the 

terrible  thorn-bit  of  Marriage. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  257 


XII. 


As  the  thriftless  gold  of  the  babul,  so  is  the 

gold  that  we  spend 
On  a  Derby  Sweep,  or  our  neighbor's  wife,  or 

the  horse  that  we  buy  from  a  friend. 

XIII. 

The  ways  of  man  with  a  maid  be  strange,  yet 
simple  and  tame 

To  the  ways  of  a  man  with  a  horse,  when  sell- 
ing or  racing  that  same. 

XIV. 

In  public  Her  face  turneth  to  thee,  and  pleas- 
ant Her  smile  when  ye  meet. 

It  is  ill.  The  cold  rocks  of  El-Gidar  smile  thus 
on  the  waves  at  their  feet. 

In  public  Her  face  is  averted,  with  anger  She 
nameth  thy  name. 

It  is  well.  Was  there  ever  a  loser  content  with 
the  loss  of  the  game? 

xv. 

If  She  have  spoken  a  word,  remember  thy  lips 

are  sealed, 
And  the  Brand  of  the  Dog  is  upon  him  by 

whom  is  the  secret  revealed. 


258  POEMS,  BALLADS 

If  She  have  written  a  letter,  delay  not  an  in- 
stant, but  burn  it, 

Tear  it  in  pieces,  O  Fool,  and  the  wind  to  her 
mate  shall  return  it! 

If  there  be  trouble  to  Herward,  and  a  lie  of 
the  blackest  can  clear, 

Lie,  while  thy  lips  can  move  or  a  man  is  alive 
to  hear. 

XVI. 

My  Son,  if  a  maiden  deny  thee  and  scuffingly 

bid  thee  give  o'er, 
Yet  lip  meets  with  lip  at  the  lastward — get 

out !    She  has  been  there  before. 
They  are  pecked  on  the  ear  and  the  chin  and 

the  nose  who  are  lacking  in  lore. 

XVII. 

If  we  fall  in  the  race,  though  we  win,  the  hoof- 
slide  is  scarred  on  the  course. 

Though  Allah  and  Earth  pardon  Sin,  remain- 
eth  forever  Remorse. 

XVIII. 

"By  all  I  am  misunderstood!"  if  the  Matron 

shall  say,  or  the  Maid : 
"Alas !  I  do  not  understand,"  my  son,  be  thou 

nowise  afraid. 
In  vain  in  the  sight  of  the  Bird  is  the  net  of 

the  Fowler  displayed. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  259 

XIX. 

My  son,  if  I,  Hafiz,  thy  father,  take  hold  of  thy 

knees  in  my  pain, 
Demanding  thy  name  on  stamped  paper,  one 

day  or  one  hour — refrain. 
Are  the  links  of  thy  fetters  so  light  that  thou 

cravest  another  man's  chain? 


.THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  HUNDRED  HEAD 

There's  a  widow  in  sleepy  Chester 

Who  weeps  for  her  only  son; 
There's  a  grave  on  the  Pdbeng  River, 

A  grave  that  the  Bimnans  shun, 
And  there's  Subadar  Prag  Tewarri 

Who  tells  how  the  work  was  done. 


A  SNIDER  squibbed  in  the  jungle, 
Somebody  laughed  and  fled, 

And  the  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 
Picked  up  their  Subaltern  dead, 

With  a  big  blue  mark  in  his  forehead 
And  the  back  blown  out  of  his  head. 


Subadar  Prag  Tewarri, 

Jemadar  Hira  Lai, 
Took  command  of  the  party, 

Twenty  rifles  in  all, 
Marched  them  down  to  the  river 

As  the  day  was  beginning  to  fall. 
260 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  261 

They  buried  the  boy  by  the  river, 

A  blanket  over  his  face — 
They  wept  for  their  dead  lieutenant, 

The  men  of  an  alien  race — 
They  made  a  samddh  in  his  honor, 

A  mark  for  his  resting-place. 

For  they  swore  by  the  Holy  Water, 

They  swore  by  the  salt  they  ate, 
That  the  soul  of  Lieutenant   Eshmitt   Sahib 

Should  go  to  his  God  in  state ; 
With  fifty  file  of  Burman 

To  open  him  Heaven's  gate. 

The  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 

Marched  till  the  break  of  day, 
Till  they  came  to  the  rebel  village, 

The  village  of  Pabengmay — 
A  jingal  covered  the  clearing, 

Calthrops  hampered  the  way. 

Subadar  Prag  Tewarri, 

Bidding  them  load  with  ball, 
Halted  a  dozen  rifles 

Under  the  village  wall ; 
Sent  out  a  flanking-party 

With  Jemadar  Hira  Lai. 


262  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 

Shouted  and  smote  and  slew, 
Turning  the  grinning  jingal 

On  to  the  howling  crew. 
The  Jemadar's  flanking-party 

Butchered  the  folk  who  flew. 

Long  was  the  morn  of  slaughter, 

Long  was  the  list  of  slain, 
Five  score  heads  were  taken, 

Five  score  heads  and  twain; 
And  the  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 

Went  back  to  their  grave  again, 

Each  man  bearing  a  basket 

Red  as  his  palms  that  day, 
Red  as  the  blazing  village — 

The  village  Pabengmay. 
And  the  "drip-drip-drip"  from  the  baskets 

Reddened  the  grass  by  the  way. 

They  made  a  pile  of  their  trophies 

High  as  a  tall  man's  chin, 
Head  upon  head  distorted, 

Set  in  a  sightless  grin, 
Anger  and  pain  and  terror 

Stamped  on  the  smoke-scorched  akin. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  263 

Subadar  Prag  Tewarri 

Put  the  head  of  the  Boh 
On  the  top  of  the  mound  of  triumph, 

The  head  of  his  son  below, 
With  the  sword  and  the  peacock-banner 

That  the  world  might  behold  and  know. 

Thus  the  samddh  was  perfect, 

Thus  was  the  lesson  plain 
Of  the  wrath  of  the  First  Shikaris — 

The  price  of  a  white  man  slain; 
And  the  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 

Went  back  into  camp  again. 

Then  a  silence  came  to  the  river, 

A  hush  fell  over  the  shore, 
And  Bohs  that  were  brave  departed, 
And  Sniders  squibbed  no  more; 
For  the  Burmans  said 
That  a  kullah's  head 
Must  be  paid  for  with  heads  five  score. 

There's  a  widow  in  sleepy  Chester 

W ho  weeps  for  her  only  son; 
There's  a  grave  on  the  Pabeng  River, 

A  grave  that  the  Burmans  shun, 
And  there's  Subadar  Prag  Tewarri 

Who  tells  how  the  work  was  done. 


THE  MOON  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

BENEATH  the  deep  veranda's  shade, 

When  bats  begin  to  fly, 
I  sit  me  down  and  watch — alas ! — 

Another  evening  die. 
Blood-red  behind  the  sere  ferash 

She  rises  through  the  haze. 
Sainted  Diana!  can  that  be 

The  Moon  of  Other  Days? 

Ah !  shade  of  little  Kitty  Smith, 

Sweet  Saint  of  Kensington ! 
Say,  was  it  ever  thus  at  Home 

The  Moon  of  August  shone, 
When  arm  in  arm  we  wandered  long 

Through  Putney's  evening  haze, 
And  Hammersmith  was  Heaven  beneath 

The  Moon  of  Other  Days? 

But  Wandle's  stream  is  Sutlej  now, 

And  Putney's  evening  haze 
The  dust  that  half  a  hundred  kine 

Before  my  window  raise. 
264 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  265 

Unkempt,  unclean,  athwart  the  mist 

The  seething  city  looms, 
In  place  of  Putney's  golden  gorse 

The  sickly  babul  blooms. 

Glare  down,  old  Hecate,  through  the  dust, 

And  bid  the  pie-dog  yell, 
Draw  from  the  drain  its  typhoid-germ, 

From  each  bazaar  its  smell ; 
Yea,  suck  the  fever  from  the  tank 

And  sap  my  strength  therewith: 
Thank  Heaven,  you  show  a  smiling  face 

To  little  Kitty  Smith! 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL 

(Foot-Service  to  the  Hills) 

IN  the  name  of  the  Empress  of  India,  make 

way, 

O  Lords  of  the  Jungle,  wherever  you  roam. 

The  woods  are  astir  at  the  close  of  the  day — 

We   exiles    are   waiting    for    letters    from 

Home. 

Let  the  robber  retreat — let  the  tiger  turn  tail — 
In  the  Name  of  the  Empress,  the  Overland 
Mail! 

With  a  jingle  of  bells  as  the  dusk  gathers  in, 
He  turns  to  the  foot-path  that  heads  up  the 

hill— 
The  bags  on  his  back  and  a  cloth  round  his 

chin, 
And,  tucked  in  his  waist-belt,  the  Post  Office 

bill: 
"Despatched  on  this  date,  as  received  by  the 

rail, 

Ptr  runner,  two  bags  of  the  Overland  Mail." 
266 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  267 

Is  the  torrent  in  spate?    He  must  ford  it  or 

swim. 

Has  the  rain  wrecked  the  road?    He  must 
climb  by  the  cliff. 

Does  the  tempest  cry  "Halt"  ?    What  are  tem- 
pests to  him? 
The  Service  admits  not  a  "but"  or  an  "if." 

While  the  breath's  in  his  mouth,  he  must  bear 
without  fail, 

In  the  Name  of  the  Empress,  the  Overland 
Mail. 

From  aloe  to  rose-oak,  from  rose-oak  to  fir, 

From  level  to  upland,  from  upland  to  crest, 
From  rice-field  to  rock-ridge,  from  rock-ridge 

to  spur, 
Fly   the   soft    sandalled    feet,    strains   the 

brawny  brown  chest. 
From  rail  to  ravine — to  the  peak  from  the 

vale — 
Up,  up  through  the  night  goes  the  Overland 

Mail. 

There's  a  speck  on  the  hillside,  a  dot  on  the 

road — 

A  jingle  of  bells  on  the  foot-path  below — 
There's    a    scuffle    above    in    the    monkey's 
abode — 


268  POEMS,  BALLADS 

The  world  is   awake,  and   the  clouds  are 

aglow. 
For  the  great  Sun  himself  must  attend  to  the 

hail  : 
"In  the  name  of  the  Empress,  the  Overland 

Mail!" 


WHAT  THE  PEOPLE  SAID 
(June  2ist,   1887) 

BY  the  well,  where  the  bullocks  go 

Silent  and  blind  and  slow — 

By  the  field  where  the  young  corn  dies 

In  the  face  of  the  sultry  skies, 

They  have  heard,  as  the  dull  Earth  hears 

The  voice  of  the  wind  of  an  hour, 

The  sound  of  the  Great  Queen's  voice: 

"My  God  hath  given  me  years, 

Hath  granted  dominion  and  power: 

And  I  bid  you,  O  Land,  rejoice." 

And  the  ploughman  settles  the  share 
More  deep  in  the  grudging  clod ; 
For  he  saith :  "The  wheat  is  my  care, 
And  the  rest  is  the  will  of  God. 
He  sent  the  Mahratta  spear 
As  He  sendeth  the  rain, 
And  the  Mlech,  in  the  fated  year, 
Broke  the  spear  in  twain, 
And  was  broken  in  turn.    Who  knows 
How  our  Lords  make  strife? 
It  is  good  that  the  young  wheat  grows, 
For  the  bread  is  Life." 
269 


270  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Then,  far  and  near,  as  the  twilight  drew, 

Hissed  up  to  the  scornful  dark 
Great  serpents,  blazing1,  of  red  and  blue, 
That  rose  and  faded,  and  rose  anew, 

That  the  Land  might  wonder  and  mark 
"To-day  is  a  day  of  days,"  they  said, 
"Make  merry,  O  People,  all !" 
And  the  Ploughman  listened   and   bowed  his 

head: 

"To-day  and  to-morrow  God's  will,"  he  said, 
As  he  trimmed  the  lamps  on  the  wall. 
"He  sendeth  us  years  that  are  good, 
As  He  sendeth  the  dearth. 
He  giveth  to  each  man  his  food, 
Or  Her  food  to  the  Earth. 
Our  Kings  and  our  Queens  are  afar—- 
On their  peoples  be  peace — 
God  bringeth  the  rain  to  the  Bar, 
That  our  catle  increase." 

And  the  Ploughman  settled  the  share 

More  deep  in  the  sun-dried  clod : 

"Mogul,  Mahratta,  and  Mlech  from  the  North, 

And  White  Queen  over  the  Seas — 

God  raiseth  them  up  and  driveth  them  forth 

As  the  dust  of  the  ploughshare  flies  in  the 

breeze ; 

But  the  wheat  and  the  cattle  are  all  my  care, 
And  the  rest  is  the  will  of  God." 


THE  UNDERTAKER'S  HORSE 

"TO-TSCHIN-SHU  is  condemned  to  death.  How  can 
he  drink  tea  with  the  Executioner?" — Japanese  Prov- 
erb. 

THE  eldest  son  bestrides  him, 

And  the  pretty  daughter  rides  him, 

And  I  meet  him  oft  o'  mornings  on  the  Course ; 

And  there  wakens  in  my  bosom 

An  emotion  chill  and  gruesome 

As  I  canter  past  the  Undertaker's  Horse, 

Neither  shies  he  nor  is  restive, 
But  a  hideously  suggestive 
Trot,  professional  and  placid,  he  affects; 
And  the  cadence  of  his  hoof-beats 
To  my  mind,  this  grim  reproof  beats : 
"Mend   your   pace,   my   friend,   I'm  coming. 
Who's  the  next?" 

Ah!  stud-bred  of  ill-omen, 
I  have  watched  the  strongest  go — men 
Of  pith  and  might  and  muscle — at  your  heels 
Down  the  plantain-bordered  highway, 
(Heaven  send  it  ne'er  be  my  way!) 
In  a  lacquered  box  and  jetty  upon  wheels. 
271 


272  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Answer,  sombre  beast  and  dreary, 
Where  is  Brown,  the  young  and  cheery, 
Smith,  the  pride  of  all  his  friends  and  half  the 

Force  ? 

You  were  at  that  last  dread  dak 
We  must  cover  at  a  walk, 
Bring  them  back  to  me,  O  Undertaker's  Horse! 

With  your  mane  unhogged  and  flowing, 

And  your  curious  way  of  going, 

And  that  business-like  black  crimping  of  your 

tail, 

E'en  with  Beauty  on  your  back,  sir, 
Pacing  as  a  lady's  hack,  sir, 
What  wonder  when  I  meet  you  I  turn  pale? 

It  may  be  you  wait  your  time,  Beast, 

Till  I  write  my  last  bad  rhyme,  Beast, 

Quit  the  sunlight,  cut  the  rhyming,  drop  the 

glass, 

Follow  after  with  the  others, 
Where  some  dusky  heathen  smothers 
Us  with  marigolds  in  lieu  of  English  grass. 

Or,  perchance,  in  years  to  follow, 

I  shall  watch  your  plump  sides  hollow, 

See  Carnifex  (gone  lame)  become  a  corse. 

See  old  age  at  last  o'erpower  you, 

And  the  Station  Pack  devour  you, 

I  shall  chuckle  then,  O  Undertaker's  Horse! 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  273 

But  to  insult,  gibe,  and  quest,  I've 

Still  the  hideously  suggestive 

Trot  that  hammers  out  the  grim  and  warning 

text, 

And  I  hear  it  hard  behind  me, 
In  what  place  soe'er  I  find  me:  . 
"Sure  to  catch  you  sooner  or  later.     Who's 

the  next?" 


THIS  fell  when  dinner-time  was  done — 
'Twixt  the  first  an'  the  second  rub — 

That  oor  mon  Jock  cam'  hame  again 
To  his  rooms  ahint  the  Club. 

An'  syne  he  laughed,  an'  syne  he  sang, 

An'  syne  we  thoct  him  fou, 
An'  syne  he  trumped  his  partner's  trick, 

An'  garred  his  partner  rue. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  elder  mon, 

That  held  the  Spade  its  Ace — 
"God  save  the  lad!    Whence  comes  the  lick, 

That  wimples  on  his  face?" 

An'  Jock  he  sniggered,  an'  Jock  he  smiled, 

An'  ower  the  card-brim  wunk : 
"I'm  a'  too  fresh  fra'  the  stirrup-peg, 

May  be  that  I  am  drunk." 

"There's  whusky  brewed  in  Galashiels, 

An'  L.  L.  L.  forbye; 
But  never  liquor  lit  the  low 

That  keeks  fra'  oot  your  eye. 
274 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  275 

"There's  a  thrid  o'  hair  on  your  dress-coat 
breast, 

Aboon  the  heart  a  wee?" 
"Oh !  that  is  f ra'  the  lang-haired  Skyc 

That  slobbers  ower  me." 


"Oh!  lang-haired  Skyes  are  lovin'  beasts, 

An'  terrier  dogs  are  fair, 
But  never  yet  was  terrier  born 

Wi'  ell-lang  gowden  hair! 

"There's  a  smirch  o'  pouther  on  your  breast, 

Below  the  left  lappel  ?" 
"Oh !  that  is  f  ra'  my  auld  cigar, 

Whenas  the  stump-end  fell." 

"Mon  Jock,  ye  smoke  the  Trichi  coarse, 

For  ye  are  short  o'  cash, 
An'  best  Havanas  couldna  leave 

Sae  white  an'  pure  an  ash. 

"This  nicht  ye  stopped  a  story  braid, 

An'  stopped  it  wi'  a  curse — 
Last  nicht  ye  told  that  tale  yoursel, 

An'  capped  it  wi'  a  worse ! 


276  POEMS,  BALLADS 

"Oh!  we're  no  fou!    Oh!  we're  no  fou! 

But  plainly  we  can  ken 
Ye're  fallin',  fallin',  fra'  the  band 

O'  cantie  single  men!" 

An'  it  fell  when  ^irm-shaws  were  sere, 
An'  the  nichts  were  lang  and  mirk, 

In  braw  new  breeks,  wi  a  gowden  ring, 
Oor  Jockie  gaed  to  the  Kirk. 


ARITHMETIC  ON  THE  FRONTIER 

A  GREAT  and  glorious  thing  it  is 
To  learn,  for  seven  years  or  so, 

The  Lord  knows  what  of  that  and  this, 
Ere  reckoned  fit  to  face  the  foe — 

The  flying  bullet  down  the  Pass, 

That  whistles  clear:  "All  flesh  is  grass." 


Three  hundred  pounds  per  annum  spent 
On  making  brain  and  body  meeter 

For  all  the  murderous  intent 

Comprised  in  "villanous  saltpetre!" 

And  after — ask  the  Yusufzaies 

iWhat  comes  of  all  our  'ologies. 


A  scrimmage  in  a  Border  Station— 
A  canter  down  some  dark  defile — 

Two  thousand  pounds  of  education 
Drops  to  a  ten-rupee  jezail — 

The  Crammer's  boast,  the  Squadron's  pride, 

Shot  like  a  rabbit  in  a  ride ! 
277 


278  POEMS,  BALLADS 

No  proposition  Euclid  wrote, 

No  formulae  the  text-books  know, 

Will  turn  the  bullet  from  your  coat, 
Or  ward  the  tulwar's  downward  blow. 

Strike  hard  who  cares — shoot  straight  who 
can — 

The  odds  are  on  the  cheaper  man. 

One  sword-knot  stolen  from  the  camp 
Will  pay  for  all  the  school  expenses 

Of  any  Kurrum  Valley  scamp 

Who  knows  no  word  or  moods  and  tenses, 

But,  being  blessed  with  perfect  sight, 

Picks  off  our  messmates  left  and  right. 

With  home-bred  hordes  the  hillsides  teem, 
The  troop-ships  bring  us  one  by  one, 

At  vast  expense  of  time  and  steam, 
To  slay  Airidis  where  they  run. 

The  "captives  of  our  bow  and  spear" 

Are  cheap — alas !  as  we  are  dear. 


ONE    VICEROY    RESIGNS 

(Lord  Dufferin  to  Lord  Lansdowne) 

So  here's  your  Empire.    No  more  wine,  then? 

Good. 

We'll  clear  the  Aides  and  khitmatgars  away. 
(You'll   know   that   fat   old   fellow  with  the 

knife — 

He  keeps  the  Name  Book,  talks  in  English  too, 
And  almost  thinks  himself  the  Government.) 

0  Youth,  Youth,  Youth !    Forgive  me,  you're 

so  young. 

Forty  from  sixty — twenty  years  of  work 
And  power  to  back  the  working.    Ay  de  mi! 
You  want  to  know,  you  want  to  see,  to  touch, 
And,  by  your  lights,  to  act.    It's  natural. 

1  wonder  can  I  help  you.    Let  me  try. 

You  saw — what  did  you  see   from  Bombay 

east? 

Enough  to  frighten  any  one  but  me? 
Neat  that!    It  frightened  Me  in  Eighty-Four! 
You  shouldn't  take  a  man  from  Canada 
And  bid  him  smoke  in  powder-magazines; 
Nor  with  a  Reputation  such  as — Bah! 
279 


280  POEMS,  BALLADS 

That  ghost  has  haunted  me  for  twenty  years, 
My  Reputation  now  full  blown — Your  fault — 
Yours,  with  your  stories  of  the  strife  at  Home, 
Who's  up,  who's  down,  who  leads  and  who  is 

led— 

One  reads  so  much,  one  hears  so  little  here. 
Well,  now's  your  turn  of  exile.    I  go  back 
To  Rome  and  leisure.    All  roads  lead  to  Rome, 
Or  books — the  refuge  of  the  destitute. 
When  you     .     .     .     that  brings  me  back  to 

India.    See ! 
Start  clear.     I  couldn't.     Egypt  served  my 

turn. 

You'll  never  plumb  the  Oriental  mind, 
And  if  you  did  it  isn't  worth  the  toil. 
Think  of  a  sleek  French  priest  in  Canada; 
Divide  by  twenty  half-breeds.     Multiply 
By  twice  the  Sphinx's  silence.     There's  your 

East, 
And  you're  as  wise  as  ever.    So  am  I. 

Accept  on  trust  and  work  in  darkness,  strike 
At  venture,  stumble  forward,  make  your  mark, 
(It's  chalk  on  granite),  then  thank  God  no 

flame 

Leaps  from  the  rock  to  shrivel  mark  and  man. 
I'm  clear — my  mark  is  made.  Three  months 

of  drought 
Had  ruined  much.    It  rained  and  washed  away 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  281 

The  specks  that  might  have  gathered  on  my 

Name. 

I  took  a  country  twice  the  size  of  France, 
And  shuttered  up  one  doorway  in  the  North. 
I  stand  by  those.     You'll  find  that  both  will 

pay, 

I  pledged  my  Name  on  both — they're  yours 

to-night. 

Hold  to  them — they  hold  fame  enough  for  two. 
I'm  old,  but  I  shall  live  till  Burma  pays. 
Men  there — not  German  traders — Cr-sthw-te 

knows — 

You'll  find  it  in  my  papers.    For  the  North 
Guns  always — quietly — but  always  guns. 
You've  seen  your  Council  ?    Yes,  they'll  try  to 

rule, 

And  prize  their  Reputations.     Have  you  met 
A  grim  lay-reader  with  a  taste  for  coins, 
And   faith   in   Sin  most  men  withhold   from 

God? 

He's  gone  to  England.  R-p-n  knew  his  grip 
And  kicked.  A  Council  always  has  its  H-pes. 
They  look  for  nothing  from  the  West  but 

Death 
Or    Bath    or    Bournemouth.       Here's    their 

ground. 

They  fight 
Until  the  middle  classes  take  them  back, 


282  POEMS,  BALLADS 

One  of  ten  millions  plus  a  C.  S.  I. 

Or  drop  in  harness.    Legion  of  the  Lost? 

Not  altogether — earnest,  narrow  men, 

But  chiefly  earnest,  and  they'll  do  your  work, 

And  end  by  writing  letters  to  the  Times. 

(Shall   /   write   letters,   answering   H-nt-r — 

fawn 

With  R-p-n  on  the  Yorkshire  grocers?  Ugh!) 
They  have  their  Reputations.     Look  to  one — 
I  work  with  him — the  smallest  of  them  all, 
White-haired,  red-faced,  who  sat  the  plunging 

horse 

Out  in  the  garden.  He's  your  right-hand  man. 
And  dreams  of  tilting  W-ls-y  from  the  throne, 
But  while  he  dreams  gives  work  we  cannot 

buy; 

He  has  his  Reputation — wants  the  Lords 
By   way   of   Frontier   Roads.      Meantime,    I 

think, 

He  values  very  much  the  hand  that  falls 
Upon  his  shoulder  at  the  Council  table — 
Hates  cats  and  knows  his  business:  which  is 

yours. 
Your  business!   Twice  a  hundred   million 

souls. 

Your  business!    I  could  tell  you  what  I  did 
Some  nights  of  Eighty-Five,  at  Simla,  worth 
A  Kingdom's  ransom.  When  a  big  ship  drives, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  283 

God  knows  to  what  new  reef  the  man  at  the 

wheel 
Prays  with  the  passengers.     They  lose  their 

lives, 

Or  rescued  go  their  way;  but  he's  no  man 
To  take  his  trick  at  the  wheel  again — that's 

worse 
Than   drowning.     Well,  a  galled   Mashobra 

mule 

(You'll  see  Mashobra)  passed  me  on  the  Mall, 
And  I  was — some  fool's  wife  had  ducked  and 

bowed 

To  show  the  others  I  would  stop  and  speak. 
Then    the    mule    fell — three    galls,    a    hand- 
breadth  each, 

Behind  the  withers.    Mrs.  Whatsisname 
Leers  at  the  mule  and  me  by  turns,  thweet 

thoul ! 

"How  could  they  make  him  carry  such  a  load !" 
I  saw — it  isn't  often  I  dream  dreams — 
More  than  the  mule  that  minute — smoke  and 

flame 

From  Simla  to  the  haze  below.    That's  weak. 
Your're  younger.    You'll  dream  dreams  before 

you've  done. 
You've  youth,  that's  one — good  workmen — 

that  means  two 
Fair  chances  in  your  favor.     Fate's  the  third. 


284  TOEMS,  BALLADS 

I  know  what  /  did.  Do  you  ask  me,  "Preach"? 

I  answer  by  my  past  or  else  go  back 

To  platitudes  of  rule — or  take  you  thus 

In  confidence  and  say :  "You  know  the  trick : 

You've  governed  Canada.     You  know.     You 

know!" 

And  all  the  while  commend  you  to  Fate's  hand 
(Here  at  the  top  one  loses  sight  o'  God), 
Commend  you,  then,  to  something  more  than 

you — 
The    Other    People's    blunders    and    .     .     . 

that's  all. 

I'd  agonize  to  serve  you  if  I  could. 
It's  incommunicable,  like  the  cast 
That  drops  the  tackle  with  the  gut  adry. 
Too    much — too   little — there's    your    salmon 

lost! 

And  so  I  tell  you  nothing — wish  you  luck, 
And  wonder — how  I  wonder! — for  your  sake 
And  triumph   for  my  own.     You're  young, 

you're  young, 

You  hold  to  half  a  hundred  Shibboleths. 
I'm  old.     I  followed  Power  to  the  last, 
Gave  her  my  best,  and  Power  followed  Me. 
It's  worth  it — on  my  soul  I'm  speaking  plain, 
Here  by  the  claret  glasses! — worth  it  all. 
I  gave — no  matter  what  I  gave — I  win. 
I  know  I  win.     Mine's  work,  good  work  that 

live! 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  285 

A  country  twice  the  size  of  France — the  North 
Safeguarded.  That's  my  record :  sink  the  rest 
And  better  if  you  can.  The  Rains  may  serve, 
Rupees  may  rise — three  pence  will  give  you 

Fame — 

It's  rash  to  hope  for  sixpence — If  they  rise 
Get  guns,  more  guns,  and  lift  the  salt-tax. 

Oh! 
I    told    you    what    the    Congress    meant    or 

thought  ? 

I'll  answer  nothing.    Half  a  year  will  prove 
The   full  extent  of  time  and  thought  you'll 

spare 

To  Congress.  Ask  a  Lady  Doctor  once 
How  little  Begums  see  the  light — deduce 
Thence  how  the  True  Reformer's  child  is 

born. 

It's  interesting,  curious     .     .     .     and  vile. 
I  told  the  Turk  he  was  a  gentleman. 
I  told  the  Russian  that  his  Tartar  veins 
Bled  pure  Parisian  ichor;  and  he  purred. 
The  Congress  doesn't  purr.    I  think  it  swears. 
You're  young — you'll   swear   too   ere  you've 

reached  the  end. 

The  End !    God  help  you.  if  there  be  a  God. 
( There  must  be  one  to  startle  Gl-dst-ne's  soul 
In  that  new  land  where  all  the  wires  are  cut, 
And  Cr-ss  snores  anthems  on  the  asphodel.) 
God  help  you!    And  I'd  help  you  if  I  could, 


286  POEMS,  BALLADS 

But  that's  beyond  me.    Yes,  your  speech  was 

crude. 

Sound  claret  after  olives — yours  and  mine; 
But  Medoc  slips  into  vin  ordinaire. 
(I'll  drink  my  first  at  Genoa  to  your  health.) 
Raise  it  to  Hock.    You'll  never  catch  my  style. 
And,  after  all,  the  middle-classes  grip 
The  middle-class — for  Brompton  talk  Earl's 

Court. 
Perhaps   you're   right.      I'll   see  you   in  the 

Times — 

A  quarter-column  of  eye-searing  print, 
A  leader  once  a  quarter — then  a  war; 
The  Strand  abellow  through  the  fog:  "De- 
feat!" 

"  'Orrible  slaughter !"    While  you  lie  awake 
And  wonder.     Oh,  you'll  wonder  ere  you're 

free! 

I  wonder  now.    The  four  years  slide  away 
So  fast,  so  fast,  and  leave  me  here  alone. 
R— y,  C-lv-n,  L— 1,  R-b-rts,  B-ch,  the  rest, 
Princes  and  Powers  of  Darkness,  troops  and 

trains, 

(I  cannot  sleep  in  trains)  land  piled  on  land, 
Whitewash  and  weariness,  red  rockets,  dust, 
White  snows  that  mocked  me,  palaces — with 

draughts, 

And  W-stl-nd  with  the  drafts  he  couldn't  pay, 
Poor  W-ls-n  reading  his  obituary 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  287 

Before  he  died,  and  H-pe,  the  man  with  bones, 
And  A-tch-s-n  a  dripping  mackintosh 
At  Council  in  the  Rains,  his  grating  "Sirrr" 
Half   drowned   by   H-nt-r's   silky:   "Bat  my 

lahd." 

Hunterian  always:  M-rsh-1  spinning  plates 
Or  standing  on  his  head ;  the  Rent  Bill's  roar, 
A  hundred  thousand  speeches,  much  red  cloth, 
And  Smiths  thrice  happy  if  I  call  them  Jones, 
(I  can't  remember  half  their  names)  or  reined 
My  pony  on  the  Mall  to  greet  their  wives. 
More  trains,  more  troops,  more  dust,  and  then 

all's  done. 

Four  years,  and  I  forget.     If  I  forget 
How  will  they  bear  me  in  their  minds?    The 

North 

Safeguarded — nearly ( R-b-rts  knows  the  rest), 
A  country  twice  the  size  of  France  annexed. 
That  stays  at  least.  The  rest  may  pass — may 

pass — 

Your  heritage — and  I  can  teach  you  nought. 
"High  trust,"  "vast  honor,"  "interests  twice 

as  vast," 
"Due   reverence  to  your   Council" — keep   to 

those. 

I  envy  you  the  twenty  years  you've  gained, 
But  not  the  five  to   follow.     What's  that? 

One? 
Two! — Surely  not  so  late.   Good-night.   Don't 

dream.  — 


THE  BETROTHED 
"You  must  choose  between  me  and  your  cigar." 

OPEN  the  old  cigar-box,  get  me  a  Cuba  stout, 
For  things  are  running  crossways,  and  Mag- 
gie and  I  are  out. 

We  quarreled  about  Havanas — we  fought  o'er 

a  good  cheroot, 
And  I  know  she  is  exacting,  and  she  says  I  am 

a  brute. 

Open  the  old   cigar-box. — let   me  consider  a 

space ; 
In  the  soft  blue  veil  of  the  vapor,  musing  on 

Maggie's  face. 

Maggie  is  pretty  to  look  at — Maggie's  a  lov- 
ing lass, 

But  the  prettiest  cheeks  must  wrinkle,  the 
truest  of  loves  must  pass. 

There's  peace  in  a  Laranaga,  there's  calm  in  a 

Henry  Clay, 
But  the  best  cigar  in  an  hour  is  finished  and 

thrown  away — 

288 


.      AND  OTHER  VERSES  289 

Thrown  away  for  another  as  perfect  and  ripe 

and  brown — 
But  I  could  not  throw  away  Maggie  for  fear 

o'  the  talk  o'  the  town! 

Maggie,  my  wife  at  fifty — grey  and  dour  and 

old— 
With  never  another  Maggie  to  purchase  for 

love  or  gold ! 

And  the  light  of  Days  that  have  Been  the  dark 

of  the  Days  that  Are, 
And  Love's  torch  stinking  and  stale,  like  the 

butt  of  a  dead  cigar — 

The  butt  of  a  dead  cigar  you  are   bound  to 

keep  in  your  pocket — 
With  never  a  new  one  to  light  tho'  it's  charred 

and  black  to  the  socket. 

Open  the  old    cigar-box — let   me    consider  a 

while — 
Here   is  a   mild    Manilla — there  is  a   wifely 

smile. 

Which  is  the  better  portion — bondage  bought 

with  a  ring, 
Or  a  harem  of  dusky  beauties  fifty  tied  in  a 

string  ? 


290  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Counsellors  cunning    and    silent — comforters 

true  and  tried, 
And  never  a  one  of  the  fifty  to  sneer  at  a  rival 

bride. 

Thought  in  the  early  morning,  solace  in  time 

of  woes 
Peace  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight,    balm  ere 

my  eyelids  close. 

This  will  the  fifty  give  me,  asking  nought  in 

return, 
With  only  a  Suttee's  passion — to  do  their  duty 

and  burn. 

This  will  the  fifty  give  me.     When  they  are 

spent  and  dead, 
Five  times  other  fifties  shall  be  my  servants 

instead. 

The  furrows  of  far-off  Java,  the  isles  of  the 

Spanish  Main, 
When  they  hear  my  harem  is  empty,  will  send 

me  my  brides  again. 

I  will  take  no  heed  to  their  raiment,  nor  food 

for  their  mouths  withal, 
So  long  as  the  gulls  are  nesting,  so  long  as  the 

showers  fall. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  291 

I  will  scent  'em  with  best  vanilla,  with  tea  will 

I  temper  their  hides, 
And  the  Moor  and  the  Mormon  shall  envy 

who  read  of  the  tale  of  my  brides. 

For  Maggie  has  written  a  letter  to  give  me  my 

choice  between 
The  wee  little  whimpering  Love  and  the  great 

god  Nick  o'  Teen. 

And  I  have  been  servant  of  Love  for  barely  a 

twelvemonth  clear, 
But  I  have  been  Priest  of  Partagas  a  matter 

of  seven  year ; 

And  the  gloom  of  my  bachelor  days  is  flecked 

with  the  cheery  light 
Of  stumps  that  I  burned  to  Friendship  and 

Pleasure  and  Work  and  Fight. 

And  I  turn  my  eyes  to  the  future  that  Maggie 

and  I  must  prove, 
But  the  only  light  on  the  marshes  is  the  Will- 

o'-the-Wisp  of  Love. 

Will  it  see  me  safe  through  my  journey,  or 
leave  me  bogged  in  the  mire? 

Since  a  puff  of  tobacco  can  cloud  it,  shall  I 
follow  the  fitful  fire? 


292  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Open   the   old   cigar-box  —  let  me  consider 

anew — 
Old  friends,  and  who  is  Maggie  that  I  should 

abandon  you? 

A  million  surplus  Maggies  are  willing  to  bear 

the  yoke; 
And  a  woman  is  only  a  woman,  but  a  good 

cigar  is  a  Smoke. 

Light  me  another  Cuba;  I  hold  to  my  first- 
sworn  vows, 

If  Maggie  will  have  no  rival,  I'll  have  no 
Maggie  for  spouse! 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 

WHERE  the  sober-colored  cultivator  smiles 

On  his  bytes; 
Where  the  cholera,  the  cyclone,  and  the  crow 

Come  and  go ; 
Where  the  merchant  deals  in  indigo  and  tea, 

Hides  and  ghi; 
Where  the  Babu  drops  inflammatory  hints 

In  his  prints ; 

Stands  a  City — Charnock     chose     it — packed 
away 

Near  a  Bay — 
By  the  sewage  rendered  fetid,  by  the  sewer 

Made  impure, 

By    the    Sunderbunds    unwholesome,    by  the 
swamp 

Moist  and  damp; 
And  the  City  and  the  Viceroy,  as  we  see, 

Don't  agree. 
Once,  two  hundred  years  ago,  the  trader  came 

Meek  and  tame. 

Where  his  timid  foot  first  halted,   there  he 
stayed, 

Till  mere  trade 
Grew  to  Empire,  and  he  sent  his  armies  forth 

South  and  North 

293 


294  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Till  the  country  from  Peshawur  to  Ceylon 

Was  his  own. 

Thus  the  midday  halt  of  Charnock — more's 
the  pity! 

Grew  a  City. 
As  the  fungus  sprouts  chaotic  from  its  bed, 

So  it  spread — 
Chance-directed,  chance-erected,  laid  and  built 

On  the  silt — 
Palace,  byre,  hovel — poverty  and  pride — 

Side  by  side; 
And,  above  the  packed  and  pestilential  town, 

Death  looked  down. 
But  the  Rulers  in  that  City  by  the  Sea 

Turned  to  flee — 

Fled,  with  each  returning  spring-tide  from  its 
ills 

To  the  Hills. 

From  the  clammy  fogs  of  morning,   from  the 
blaze 

Of  the  days, 

From  the  sickness  of  the  noontide,  from  the 
heat, 

Beat  retreat; 
For  the  country  from  Peshawur  to  Ceylon 

Was  their  own. 
But  the  Merchant  risked  the  perils  of  the  Plain 

For  his  gain. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  295 

Now  the  resting-place  of  Charnock,  'neath  the 
palms, 

Asks  an  alms, 
And  the  burden  of  its  lamentation  is. 

Briefly,  this : 

"Because,  for  certain  months,  we    boil    and 
stew, 

So  should  you. 
Cast  the  Viceroy  and  his  Council,  to  perspire 

In  our  fire!" 
And  for  answer  to  the  argument,  in  vain 

We  explain 
That  an  amateur  Saint  Lawrence  cannot  fry; 

"All  must  fry!" 
That  the  Merchant  risks  the  perils  of  the  Plain 

For  his  gain. 

Nor  can  Rulers  rule  a  house  that  men  grow 
rich  in, 

From  its  kitchen. 

Let  the  Babu  drop  inflammatory  hints 

In  his  prints ; 

And  mature  —  consistent  soul  —  his  plan  for 
stealing 

To  Darjeeling; 

Let  the  Merchant  seek,  who  makes  his  silver 
pile, 

England's  isle; 


296  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Let  the  City    Charnock    pitched  on  —  evil 
day! — 

Go  Her  way. 
Though  the  argosies  of  Asia  at  Her  doors 

Heap  their  stores, 
Though  Her  enterprise  and  energy  secure 

Income  sure, 

Though       "out-station      orders       punctually 
obeyed" 

Swell  Her  trade — 
Still,  for  rule,  administration,  and  the  rest, 

Simla's  best. 


GRIFFEN'S  DEBT 

IMPRIMIS  he  was  "broke."  Thereafter  left 
His  regiment,  and,  later,  took  to  drink; 
Then,  having  lost  the  balance  of  his  friends, 
"Went    Fantee" — joined   the    people   of   the 

land, 

Turned  three  parts  Mussulman  and  one  Hindu 
And  lived  among  the  Gauri  villagers, 
Who  gave  him  shelter  and  a  wife  or  twain, 
And  boasted  that  a  thorough,  full-blood  sahib 
Had  come  among  them.     Thus  he  spent  his 

time, 

Deeply  indebted  to  the  village  shroff, 
(Who    never    asked    for    payment)     always 

drunk, 

Unclean,  abominable,  out-at-heels ; 
Forgetting  that  he  was  an  Englishman. 

You  know  they    dammed    the  Gauri    with  a 

dam, 
And  all  the  good  contractors  scamped  their 

work, 

297 


±98  POEMS,  BALLADS 

And  all  the  bad  material  at  hand 

Was  used  to  dam  the  Gauri — which  was  cheap 

And,  therefore,  proper.  Then  the  Gauri  burst, 

And  several  hundred  thousand  cubic  tons 

Of  water  dropped  into  the  valley,  flop, 

And  drowned  some  five  and  twenty  villagers, 

And  did  a  lakh  or  two  of  detriment 

To  crops  and  cattle.     When  the  flood    went 

down 
We  found  him  dead,    beneath    an  old    dead 

horse, 

Full  six  miles  down  the  valley.     So  we  said 
He  was  a  victim  to  the  Demon  Drink, 
And  moralized  upon  him  for  a  week, 
And  then  forgot  him.    Which  was  natural. 

But,  in  the  valley  of  the  Gauri,  men 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  big  new  dam 
Relate  a  foolish  legend  of  the  flood. 
Accounting  for  the  little  loss  of  life 
(Only  those  five  and  twenty  villagers) 
In  this  wise :  On  the  evening  of  the  flood, 
They  heard  the  groaning  of  the  rotten  dam,  . 
And  voices  of  the  Mountain  Devils.    Then 
An  incarnation  of  the  local  God, 
Mounted  upon  a  monster-neighing  horse. 
And  flourishing  a  flail-like  whip,  came  down. 
Breathing  ambrosia,  to  the  villages, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  299 

And  fell  upon  the  simple  villagers 
With  yells  beyond  the  power  of  mortal  throat, 
And  blows  beyond  the  power  of  mortal  hand, 
And  smote  them  with  the  flail-like  whip,   and 

drove 

Them  clamorous  with  terror  up  the  hill, 
And     scattered,     with     the  monster-neighing 

steed, 

Their  crazy  cottages  about  their  ears, 
And  generally  cleared  those  villages. 
Then  came  the  water,  and  the  local  God, 
Breathing  ambrosia,  flourishing  his  whip, 
And  mounted  on  his  monster-neighing  steed, 
Went  down  the  valley  with  the  flying  trees 
And     residue     of    homesteads,     while    they 

watched 
Safe  on   the    mountain-side  these  wondrous 

things, 
And  knew  that  they  were   much   beloved  of 

Heaven. 
Wherefore,   and  when  the  dam    was  newly 

built. 

They  raised  a  temple  to  the  local  God, 
And  burned  all  manner  of  unsavory  things 
Upon  his  altar,  and  created  priests, 
And  blew  into  a  conch,  and  banged  a  bell, 
And  told  the  story  of  the  Gauri  flood 
With  circumstance  and  much  embroidery. 


300  POEMS,  BALLADS 

So  he  the  whiskified  Objectionable, 

Unclean,  abominable,  out-at-heels, 

Became  the  tutelary  Deity 

Of  all  the  Gauri  valley  villages; 

And  may  in  time  become  a  Solar  Myth. 


IN  SPRINGTIME 

MY  garden  blazes  brightly  with  the  rosebush 

and  the  peach, 
And  the  koil  sings  above  it,  in  the  siris  by 

the  well, 
From   the  creeper-covered   trellis   comes   the 

squirrel's  chattering  speech, 
And  the  blue-jay  screams  and  flutters  where 

the  cheery  sat-bhai  dwell. 
But  the  rose  has  lost  its    fragrance,    and  the 

kail's  note  is  strange; 

I  am  sick  of  endless  sunshine,  sick  of  blos- 
som-burdened bough. 
Give  me  back  the  leafless  woodlands  where  the 

winds  of  Springtime  range — 
Give  me  back  one  day  in  England,  for  it's 

Spring  in  England  now! 
Through  the  pines  the  gusts  are  booming,  o'er 

the  brown  fields  blowing  chill, 
From    the     furrow     of    the    ploughshare 

streams  the  fragrance  of  the  loam, 
And  the  hawk  nests  on  the  cliff-side  and  the 

jackdaw  in  the  hill, 

And  my  heart  is  back  in  England  mid  the 
sights  and  sounds  of  Home. 
301 


302  POEMS,  BALLADS 

But  the  garland  of  the  sacrifice  this  wealth  of 

rose  and  peach  is; 
Ah!  koil,  little  koil,  singing  on  the  sins 

bough, 
In  my  ears  the  knell  of  exile  your  ceaseless 

bell-like  speech  is — 

Can  you  tell  me  aught  of    England    or  of 
Spring  in  England  now? 


TWO  MONTHS 

IN  JUNE 

No  hope,  no  change!  The  clouds  have  shut  us 

in 
And    through    the    cloud    the    sullen    Sun 

strikes  down 

Full  on  the  bosom  of  the  tortured  Town. 
Till  Night  falls  heavy  as  remembered  sin 
That  will  not  suffer  sleep  or  thought  of  ease. 
And,  hour  on  hour,  the  dry-eyed  Moon  in 

spite 
Glares  through  the  haze  and  mocks  with 

watery  light 
The  torment  of  the  uncomplaining  trees. 

Far  off,  the  Thunder  bellows  her  despair 
To  echoing  Earth,  thrice  parched.    The  light- 
nings 

In  vain.    No  help  the  heaped-up  clouds  afford, 
But  wearier  weight  of  burdened,  burning  air. 
What  truce  with  Dawn  ?    Look,  from  the  ach- 
ing sky, 
Day  stalks,  a  tyrant  with  a  flaming  sword! 

303 


304  POEMS,  BALLADS 

IN  SEPTEMBER 

AT  dawn  there  was  a  murmur  in  the  trees, 
A  ripple  on  the  tank,  and  in  the  air 
Presage    of    coming    coolness — every- 
where 

A  voice  of  prophecy  upon  the  breeze. 
Up  leaped  the  sun  and  smote  the  dust  to  gold, 
And     strove   to   parch    anew   the   heedless 

land, 
All  impotently,  as  a  King  grown  old 

Wars  for  the  Empire  crumbling  'neath  his 
hand. 

One  by  one,  the  lotus-petals  fell, 

Beneath  the  onslaught  of  the  rebel  year 

In  mutiny  against  a  furious  sky; 

And  far-off  Winter  whispered:    "It  is  well! 

Hot  Summer  dies.     Behold  your  help  is  near, 

For  when  men's  need  is  sorest,  then  come  I." 


THE  GALLEY-SLAVE 

OH,  gallant  was  our  galley  from  her  carven 

steering-wheel 
To  her  figurehead  of  silver  and  her  beak  of 

hammered  steel ; 
The  leg-bar  chafed  the  ankle,  and  we  gasped 

for  cooler  air, 
But  no  galley  on  the  water  with  our  galley 

could  compare! 

Our  bulkheads  bulged  with   cotton  and  our 

masts  were  stepped  in  gold — 
We  ran  a  mighty  merchandise  of  niggers  in 

the  hold ; 
The  white  foam  spun  behind  us,  and  the  black 

shark  swam  below, 
As  we  gripped  the  kicking  sweep-head  and  we 

made  that  galley  go. 

It  was  merry  in  the  galley,  for  we  revelled 

now  and  then — 
If  they  wore  us  down  like  cattle,  faith,  we; 

fought  and  loved  like  men! 

305 


306  POEMS,  BALLADS 

As  we  snatched  her  through  the  water,  so  we 

snatched  a  minute's  bliss, 
And  the  mutter  of  the  dying  never  spoiled  the 

lovers'  kiss. 

Our  women  and  our  children  toiled  beside  us 

in  the  dark — 
They   died,   we  filed  their   fetters,   and  we 

heaved  them  to  the  shark — 
We  heaved  them  to  the  fishes,  but  so  fast  the 

galley  sped, 
We  had  only  time  for  envy,  for  we  could  not 

mourn  our  dead. 

Bear  witness,  once  my  comrades,  what  a  hard- 
bit  gang  were  we — - 

The  servants  of  the  sweep-head,  but  the  mas- 
ters of  the  sea ! 

By  the  hands  that  drove  her  forward  as  she 
plunged  and  yawed  and  sheered, 

Woman,  Man,  or  God  or  Devil,  was  there 
anything  we  feared? 

Was  it  storm?    Our  fathers  faced  it,  and  a 

wilder  never  blew; 
Earth  that  waited  for  the  wreckage  watched 

the  galley  struggle  through. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  307 

Burning  noon  or  choking  midnight,  Sickness, 

Sorrow,  Parting,  Death? 
Nay,  our  very  babes  would  mock  you,  had 

they  time  for  idle  breath. 

But  to-day  I  leave  the  galley,  and  another 

takes  my  place; 
There's  my  name  upon  the  deck-beam — let  it 

stand  a  little  space. 
I  am  free — to  watch  my  messmates  beating 

out  to  open  main, 
Free  of  all  that  Life  can  offer — save  to  handle 

sweep  again. 

By  the  brand  upon  my  shoulder,  by  the  gall  of 
clinging  steel, 

By  the  welt  the  whips  have  left  me,  by  the 
scars  that  never  heal ; 

By  eyes  grown  old  with  staring  through  the 
sun-wash  on  the  brine, 

I  am  paid  in  full  for  service — would  that  ser- 
vice still  were  mine! 

Yet  they  talk  of  times  and  seasons  and  of  woe 

the  years  bring  forth, 
Of  our  galley  swamped  and  shattered  in  the 

rollers  of  the  North. 


308  POEMS,  BALLADS 

When  the  niggers  break  the  hatches,  and  the 

decks  are  gay  with  gore, 
And  a  craven-hearted  pilot  crams  her  crashing 

on  the  shore. 

She  will  need  no  half-mast  signal,  minute- 
gun,  or  rocket-flare, 

When  the  cry  for  help  goes  seaward,  she  will 
find  her  servants  there. 

Battered  chain-gangs  of  the  orlop,  grizzled 
drafts  of  years  gone  by, 

To  the  bench  that  broke  their  manhood,  they 
shall  lash  themselves  and  die. 

Hale  and  crippled,  young  and  aged,  paid,  de- 
serted, shipped  away — 

Palace,  cot,  and  lazaretto  shall  make  up  the 
tale  that  day, 

When  the  skies  are  black  above  them,  and  the 
decks  ablaze  beneath, 

And  the  top-men  clear  the  raffle  with  their 
clasp-knives  in  their  teeth. 

It  may  be  that  Fate  will  give  me  life  and  leave 

to  row  once  more — 
Set  some  strong  man  free  for  righting  as  I 

take  awhile  his  oar. 
But  to-day  I  leave  the  galley.     Shall  I  .curse 

her  service  then? 
God  be  thanked — whate'er  comes  after,  I  have 

lived  and -toiled  with  Men! 


L'ENVOI 

(To  whom  it  may  concern) 

THE  smoke  upon  your  Altar  dies, 

The  flowers  decay, 
The  Goddess  of  your  sacrifice 
Has  flown  away. 
What  profit  then  to  sing  or  slay 
The  sacrifice  from  day  to  day? 

"We  know  the  Shrine  is  void,"  they  said, 

"The  Goddess  flown— 
Yet  wreaths  are  on  the  Altar  laid — » 

The  Altar-Stone 
Is  black  with  fumes  of  sacrifice, 
Albeit  She  has  fled  our  eyes. 

"For,  it  may  be,  if  still  we  sing 

And  tend  the  Shrine, 
Some  Deity  on  wandering  wing 

May  there  incline; 
And,  finding  all  in  order  meet, 
Stay  while  we  worship  at  Her  feet." 

309 


THE  CONUNDRUM  OF  THE 
WORKSHOPS 

WHEN  the  flush  of  a  newborn  sun  fell  first  on 

Eden's  green  and  gold, 
Our   father  Adam  sat  under  the  Tree  and 

scratched  with  a  stick  in  the  mould; 
And  the  first  rude  sketch  that  the  world  had 

seen  was  joy  to  his  mighty  heart, 
Till  the  Devil  whispered  behind  the  leaves: 

"It's  pretty,  but  is  it  art?" 

Wherefore  he  called  to  his  wife,  and  fled  to 

fashion  his  work  anew — 
The  first  of  his  race  who  cared  a  fig  for  the 

first,  most  dread  review; 
And  he  left  his  lore  to  the  use  of  his  sons — 

and  that  was  a  glorious  gain 
When  the  Devil  chuckled:  "Is  it  art?"  in  the 

ear  of  the  branded  Cain. 

They  builded  a  tower  to  shiver  the  sky  and 

wrench  the  stars  apart, 
Till  the  Devil  grunted  behind  the  bricks :  "It's 

striking,  but  is  it  art?" 
The  stone  was  dropped  by  the  quarry-side, 

and  the  idle  derrick  swung, 
While  each  man  talked  of  the  aims  of  art, 

and  each  in  an  alien  tongue. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  311 

They  fought  and  they  talked  in  the  north  and 

south,    they   talked   and   they   fought   in 

the  west, 
Till  the  waters  rose  on  the  jabbering  land,  and 

the  poor  Red  Clay  had  rest — 
Had    rest   till    the   dank    blank-canvas    dawn 

when  the  dove  was  preened  to  start, 
And  the  Devil  bubbled  below  the  keel:  "It's 

human,  but  is  it  art?" 


The  tale  is  old  as  the  Eden  Tree — as  new 

as  the  new-cut  tooth — 
For  each  man  knows  ere  his  lip-thatch  grows 

he  is  maste    of  art  and  truth; 
And  each  man  hears  as  the  twilight  nears,  to 

the  beat  of  his  dyinc-  heart, 
The  Devil  drum  on  the  darkened  pane :  "You 

did  it,  but  was  it  art?" 


We  have  learned  to  whittle  the  Eden  Tree  to 

the  shape  of  a  surplice-peg, 
We  have  learned  to  bottle  our  parents  twain 

in  the  yolk  of  an  addled  egg, 
We  kno\    that  the  tail  must  wag  the  dog,  as 

the  horse  is  drawn  by  the  cart ; 
But  the  Devil  whoops,  as  he  whooped  of  old : 

"It's  clever,  but  is  it  art?" 


312  POEMS,  BALLADS 

When  the  flicker  of  London  sun  falls  faint  on 

the  club-room's  green  and  gold, 
The  sons  of  Adam  sit  them  down  and  scratch 

with  their  pens  in  the  mould — 
They  scratch  with  pens  in  the  mould  of  their 

graves,  and  the  ink  and  the  anguish  start 
When  the  Devil  mutters  behind  the  leaves: 

"It's  pretty,  but  is  it  art?" 

Now,  if  we  could  win  to  the  Eden  Tree  where 

the  four  great  rivers  flow, 
And  the  wreath  of  Eve  is  red  on  the  turf  as 

she  left  it  long  ago, 
And  if  we  could  come  when  the  sentry  slept, 

and  softly  scurry  through, 
By  the  favor  of  God  we  might  know  as  much 

— as  our  father  Adam  knew. 


THE  EXPLANATION 

LOVE  and  Death  once  ceased  their  strife 
At  the  Tavern  of  Man's  Life. 
Called  for  wine,  and  threw — alas! — > 
Each  his  quiver  on  the  grass. 
When  the  bout  was  o'er  they  found 
Mingled  arrows  strewed  the  ground. 
Hastily  they  gathered  then 
Each  the  loves  and  lives  of  men. 
Ah,  the  fateful  dawn  deceived! 
Mingled  arrows  each  one  sheared: 
Death's  dread  armory  was  stored 
With  the  shafts  he  most  abhorred: 
Love's  light  quiver  groaned  beneath 
Venom-headed  darts  of  Death. 
Thus  it  was  they  wrought  our  woe 
At  the  Tavern  long  ago. 
Tell  me,  do  our  masters  know, 
Loosing  blindly  as  they  fly, 
Old  men  love  while  young  men  die? 

313 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SEA 

THE  dead  child  lay  in  the  shroud, 
And  the  widow  watched  beside; 

And  her  mother  slept,  and  the  Channel  swept 
The  gale  in  the  teeth  of  the  tide. 

But  the  widow  laughed  at  all. 

"I  have  lost  my  man  in  the  sea, 
And  the  child  is  dead.     Be  still,"  she  said, 

"What  more  can  ye  do  to  me?" 

And  the  widow  watched  the  dead, 

And  the  candle  guttered  low, 
And  she  tried  to  sing  the  Passing  Song 

That  bids  the  poor  soul  go. 

And  "Mary  take  you  now,"  she  sang, 

"That  lay  against  my  heart." 
And  "Mary  smooth  your  crib  to-night," 

But  she  could  not  say  "Depart." 

Then  came  a  cry  from  the  sea, 

But  the  sea-rime  blinded  the  glass, 

And  "Heard  ye  nothing,  mother?"  she  said; 
"  Tis  the  child  that  waits  to  pass." 

314 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  315 

And  the  nodding  mother  sighed. 

"  'Tis  a  lambing  ewe  in  the  whin, 
For  why  should  the  christened  soul  cry  out, 

That  never  knew  of  sin?" 

"Oh,  feet  I  have  held  in  my  hand, 

Oh,  hands  at  my  heart  to  catch, 
How  should  they  know  the  road  to  go, 

And  how  should  they  lift  the  latch?" 

They  laid  a  sheet  to  the  door, 

With  the  little  quilt  atop, 
That  it  might  not  hurt  from  the  cold  or  the 
dirt, 

But  the  crying  would  not  stop. 

The  widow  lifted  the  latch 

And  strained  her  eyes  to  see, 
And  opened  the  door  on  the  bitter  shore 

To  let  the  soul  go  free. 

There  was  neither  glimmer  nor  ghost, 
There  was  neither  spirit  nor  spark, 

And  "Heard  ye  nothing,  mother?"  she  said, 
"  'Tis  crying  for  me  in  the  dark." 

And  the  nodding  mother  sighed. 
"  'Tis  sorrow  makes  ye  dull ; 


3i6  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Have  ye  yet  to  learn  the  cry  of  the  tern, 
Or  the  wail  of  the  wind-blown  gull?" 

"The  terns  are  blown  inland, 

The  grey  gull  follows  the  plough. 

'Twas  never  a  bird,  the  voice  I  heard, 
O  mother,  I  hear  it  now!" 

"Lie  still,  dear  lamb,  lie  still ; 

The  child  is  passed  from  harm, 
'Tis  the  ache  in  your  breast  that  broke  your 
rest, 

And  the  feel  of  an  empty  arm." 

She  puts  her  mother  aside, 

"In  Mary's  name  let  be! 
For  the  peace  of  my  soul  I  must  go,"  she  said, 

And  she  went  to  the  calling  sea. 

In  the  heel  of  the  wind-bit  pier, 
Where  the  twisted  weed  was  piled, 

She  came  to  the  life  she  had  missed  by  an 

hour, 
For  she  came  to  a  little  child. 

She  laid  it  into  her  breast, 
And  back  to  her  mother  she  came, 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  317 

But  it  would  not  feed,  and  it  would  not  heed, 
Though  she  gave  it  her  own  child's  name. 

And  the  dead  child  dripped  on  her  breast, 
And  her  own  in  the  shroud  lay  stark; 

And,  "God  forgive  us,  mother,"  she  said, 
"We  let  it  die  in  the  dark!" 


EVARRA  AND  HIS  GODS 

READ  here, 

This  is  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
Because  the  city  gave  him  of  her  gold, 
Because  the  caravans  brought  turquoises, 
Because  his  life  was  sheltered  by  the  King, 
So  that  no  man  should  maim  him,   none 

should  steal, 

Or  break  his  rest  with  babble  in  the  streets 
When  he  was  weary  after  toil,  he  made 
An  image  of  his  God  in  gold  and  pearl, 
With  turquoise  diadem  and  human  eyes, 
A  wonder  in  the  sunshine,  known  afar 
And  worshipped  by  the  King;  but,  drunk 

with  pride, 

Because  the  city  bowed  to  him  for  God, 
He  wrote  above  the  shrine :  "Thus  Gods  are 

made, 
And  whoso   wakes   them   otherwise   shall 

die." 

And  all  the  city  praised  him.     .     .     .    Then 
he  died. 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  319 

Read  here  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
Because  his  city  had  no  wealth  to  give, 
Because  the  caravans  were  spoiled  afar, 
Because  his  life  was  threatened  by  the  King, 
So  that  all  men  despised  him  in  the  streets, 
He  hacked  the  living  rock,  with  sweat  and 

tears, 

And   reared  a  God  against  the  morning- 
gold, 

A  terror  in  the  sunshine,  seen  afar, 
And  worshipped  by  the  King;  but,  drunk 

with  pride, 

Because  the  city  fawned  to  bring  him  back, 
He  carved  upon  the  plinth :  "Thus  Gods  are 

made, 
And   whoso   makes   them   otherwise  shall 

die." 

And  all  the  people  praised  him.     .     .     . 
Then  he  died. 

Read  here  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
Because  he  lived  among  a  simple  folk, 
Because  his  village  was  between  the  hills, 
Because  he  smeared  his  cheeks  with  blood 

of  ewes. 
He  cut  an  idol  from  a  fallen  pine, 


320  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Smeared  blood  upon  its  cheeks,  and  wedged 

a  shell 

Above  its  brows  for  eye,  and  gave  it  hair 
Of   trailing   moss,   and   plaited   straw    for 

crown. 
And  all  the  village  praised  him  for  this 

craft, 
And  brought  him  butter,  honey,  milk,  and 

curds. 
Wherefore,    because    the    shoutings    drove 

him  mad, 
He  scratched  upon  that  log:  "Thus  Gods 

are  made, 
And   whoso    makes   them   otherwise  shall 

die." 
And  all  the  people  praised  him.     .     .     . 

Then  he  died. 

Read  here  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
Because  his  God  decreed  one  clot  of  blood 
Should   swerve   a  hair's-breadth   from  the 

pulse's  path, 

And  chafe  his  brain,  Evarra  mowed  alone, 
Rag-wrapped,  among  the  cattle  in  the  fields, 
Counting  his  fingers,  jesting  with  the  trees, 
And  mocking  at  the  mist,  until  his  God 
Drove  him  to  labor.  Out  of  dung  and 
horns 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  321 

Dropped  in  the  mire  he  made  a  monstrous 
God, 

Abhorrent,  shapeless,  crowned  with  plain- 
tain  tufts. 

And  when  the  cattle  lowed  at  twilight-time, 

He  dreamed  it  was  the  clamor  of  lost 
crowds, 

And  howled  among  the  beasts :  "Thus  Gods 
are  made, 

And  whoso  makes  them  otherwise  shall 
die." 

Thereat  the  cattle  bellowed.  .  .  .  Then 
he  died. 

Yet  at  the  last  he  came  to  Paradise, 

And  found  his  own  four  Gods,  and  that  he 

wrote ; 

And  marveled,  being  very  near  to  God, 
What  oaf  on  earth  had  made  his  toil  God's 

law, 
Till  God  said,  mocking:  "Mock  not.    These 

be  thine." 
Then   cried   Evarra:    "I   have   sinned!" — 

"Not  so. 

If  thou  hadst  written  otherwise,  thy  Gods 
Had  rested  in  the  mountain  and  the  mine, 
And  I  were  poorer  by  four  wondrous  Gods, 
And    thy    more    wondrous    law,    Evarra, 

Thine, 


322  POEMS,  BALLADS 

Servant   of  shouting  crowds   and  lowing 

kine." 
Thereat  with  laughing  mouth,  but  tear-wet 

eyes, 

Evarra  cast  his  Gods  from  Paradise. 
This  is  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 


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